Something Worth Winning
by Percie Jean
Summary: David Jacobs, perpetual new kid and outsider, just wants his life to return to normal - but instead, he finds his life upended by an accident, a strike, and an unexpected friendship. It turns out that going up against The World is only the beginning of the adventure... (Character study/Friendship fic/Eventual romance (JackxKatherine & slow-burn DaveyxOC). See inside for details.
1. An Unfortunate Accident

**Disclaimer: **This is a non-commercial work of fanfiction. Anything recognizable from _Newsies _belongs to Disney. Original characters, narrative, and plot points are mine.

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**Summary**: This story is, among other things, my attempt to give Davey the development, appreciation, and protagonist role that he didn't get in _Newsies_ by virtue of it being Jack's story (though Jack, Race, and Katherine also feature prominently in this narrative). Part character study, part conglomeration of "missing scenes" from the musical, part friendship fic, and part romance (JackxKatherine and slow burn DaveyxOC), it's an in-depth look at the relationships formed between the key players of the strike that explores what might have been going on behind the scenes and beyond. I hope that you'll give it a read! :)

Something Worth Winning is rated a conservative "T" for some moments of emotional intensity and a few mild swear words, but the majority of it falls well within the "K plus"-appropriate range.

A quick shout-out to _Disneyfan10_ for nudging me to give this a try - always thankful for your kind words!

And now, without further ado, on to our story!

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**SOMETHING WORTH WINNING**

**By Percie Jean**

Chapter 1: An Unfortunate Accident

Their friendship began in a most inauspicious manner.

Sadie Becker was in a hurry, and furthermore, she was annoyed, which was unusual for her. It all came down to rather unfortunate timing...

It was a Saturday afternoon, and she had been sitting at the kitchen table finishing her lunch when her father caught sight of her as he came into the kitchen from his study across the hallway.

"Ah, Sadie, just whom I was looking for." He walked over to the table, and Sadie immediately frowned as she noticed the small can of paint and paintbrush in his hand.

"Papa, I can't today," she said quickly, rising to take her dishes to the sink. "Megs and I are going shopping. We've been planning this all week!"

"Now, Sadie," her father cajoled, "I know you don't have to meet Margaret for another hour, and the job I have in mind shouldn't take you nearly that long. Besides," he added, "haven't you been asking me for extra work lately so that you can save up to buy that hat you've been eyeing at Halston's?"

"Yes, Papa." Sadie admitted, somewhat grudgingly. It was true. She only needed a bit more money to be able to purchase the smart-looking hat she'd seen in the millinery shop several weeks ago.

"I just need you to touch up the door to my office," her father continued. "The paint's gotten a little chipped, and I'd like to have it looking sharp before the inspector from the tenement office comes by this afternoon." He gave her a disarming smile. "I know you're quick with a paintbrush, Sadie. You'll be done in no time, and then you can be on your way to enjoy your afternoon."

Sadie huffed, knowing that it was a rather childish response but still feeling a bit put out. Her father, the landlord of a modestly-sized tenement, had no sons to assist him with the work of maintaining the property, so a good many odd jobs regularly fell to Sadie (much to her mother's chagrin). She usually didn't mind - her father was generous enough to compensate her for her help, and she enjoyed having the extra spending money - but it was a Saturday afternoon, she had already changed into her second-best dress, and being suddenly saddled with a tedious chore from her well-meaning but ill-timed father had not been a part of the plan.

If she did manage to complete it in time, however, she could probably afford to buy that hat today, which meant that she could wear it to the picnic next week, and…

"Alright, Papa, I'll do it," she said, holding out her hands for the paintbrush and paint. He gave her a grateful smile.

"Here's the key to the office," he said, handing it over. "There's a canvas apron hanging on the door inside if you'd like to use it to cover your dress." Sadie nodded her thanks, then quickly cleaned up her dishes and hurried out of her family's apartment and down the hall to the adjacent landlord's office.

Unlocking the door (which indeed looked rather neglected), she propped it open so that she could easily access both sides for painting. She found the canvas apron hanging exactly as her father had described, and quickly threw it over her dress. A search for the ladder that usually sat in the office closet proved futile before Sadie remembered that her father had taken it downstairs earlier that day. The thought of having to locate it and haul it back did not appeal to her (and she didn't have that kind of time, anyway), so she improvised, dragging several large books from her father's office and stacking them haphazardly atop one another in front of the door. It wasn't the sturdiest, but it got the job done.

So there she was, hurried and a bit annoyed, perched atop her makeshift step-stool with a small can of dove gray paint in her hand, doing her best to brush an even coat across the office door and trying hard not to let the ticking of the clock on her father's desk remind her of exactly how late she would be if she didn't speed the process along. Engrossed in her task, she didn't notice the steady beat of footsteps coming up the stairs behind her, or hear the telltale creak of someone stopping in their tracks as they arrived on the landing.

"That doesn't look very safe," a voice remarked.

Sadie started in surprise, nearly losing her hold on the can of paint but managing to grab it before it evaded her grasp. Heart pounding, she turned slowly towards the unexpected visitor, careful not to lose her balance.

A boy stood there, tall and dark-haired, with a doubtful look on his face. "Don't you have a ladder or something you could stand on?" he queried, gesturing at the stack of books with the small envelope he held in his hand.

"Yes, well - " Sadie huffed, blowing a wayward strand of hair out of her eyes,"- it just so happens that the ladder is downstairs so that our new tenants can use it when they move in today."

He gave her a curious look. "'_Our_' new tenants?" he repeated. "Does that mean you're..."

"The landlord's daughter, yes," Sadie finished, when he failed to complete his sentence. "Which is also the only reason why I'm here, on a Saturday, painting this office door instead of being outside where most of us belong on a day like this." It was rather curt of her, and normally she wouldn't have minded striking up a conversation, but today she was in a rush, so she gave him a quick nod, then began to turn back to the door, intent upon finishing the task at hand.

Unfortunately, in her haste, she lost her balance.

The boy lurched forward and managed to steady her in time, but not before the momentum of Sadie's fall jarred the can of paint in her hand, sending the dove gray paint splashing down his shirt.

For a moment they were both speechless, the boy frozen in utter shock and Sadie dismayed but struggling not to laugh at the astonished look on his face.

"I told you standing up there was a bad idea," he muttered finally, breaking the silence and surveying his ruined shirt with a grimace. Before Sadie could reply, he held out the envelope he'd been carrying which thankfully had escaped the small deluge of paint. "Look, you said you're Mr. Becker's daughter?" he asked. "Could you give this to him for me? I'd rather not make a bad first impression by dripping all over his floor."

Sadie took the envelope. "I'm so sorry," she murmured, sincerely chagrined but still struggling to hide her amusement.

He shrugged, answering stiffly, "It's just a shirt."

He was about to turn away and start down the stairs when Sadie called out, "Wait!" He turned, and she motioned to the envelope. "Whom should I say this is from?"

The boy gave her an unreadable look before replying, "Tell him it's the first month's rent from the Jacobs family." He started down the steps, adding over his shoulder, "We're the new tenants."

* * *

Sadie finished her task without further incident (fortunately, there was just enough paint left in the can for her to cover the door), then went to find her father, who was downstairs mending a window screen. "Papa," she called out, waving the envelope. "I'm all done, and I've got the rent from our new tenants!"

Philip Becker straightened up and took the envelope and office key from his daughter's hand. "Excellent! So, you met them?"

"Well, one of them." Sadie brushed her hands off on the apron. "A boy. He looked about my age."

"I've met Mr. and Mrs. Jacobs, but neither of their sons," Philip said, putting the envelope in his waistcoat pocket. "How did this one seem?"

Sadie gave a careless shrug, removing her apron. "Uptight and overly concerned with safety." She related the paint incident to her father, this time allowing herself a small laugh as she described the flustered reaction of the boy who had looked so very like a fish out of water upon finding himself unexpectedly doused with paint. Concluding her story, Sadie was surprised to find that her father looked vaguely troubled rather than amused.

"Is there something wrong, Papa?" she asked hesitantly, suddenly concerned. Her father regarded her for a moment before putting a hand on her shoulder.

"Sadie," he said gently, "I didn't expect you to know this...but our new tenants are very poor. They're a family of four moving into one of our smallest apartments, and, quite frankly, I only accepted them as renters because they seem like honest folk and the boys are about the same ages as you and Abby. But I know that they're struggling to make ends meet. That shirt you ruined might have been one of the few that this boy owns." He paused, then added, "I know you never mean things maliciously, Sadie, and I'm not saying this to make you feel bad. I just want you to be aware for the next time. Not everyone has the good fortune that we've enjoyed."

Sadie bit her lip. "Yes, Papa," she said quietly. "I'm sorry. I'll try my best to remember."

Her father nodded. "That's my girl." Patting her on the back, he reached into his pocket. "Before I forget, here's the money for painting the door, plus the rest that I owe you for last week's projects." He smiled at her fondly. "You go enjoy your time with Margaret, now. I'll see you at dinner."

Sadie took the money with a word of thanks, then turned away, her mind still on her father's admonishment as she returned to her family's apartment to gather her things. Exiting the tenement, she hurried across the street to find her best friend, Margaret Ellis, waiting for her at the corner.

"Megs!" she called out, waving. "I'm so sorry I kept you waiting. I had to finish a project for my father and it took a little longer than I expected."

"You're forever slaving away to keep that tenement ship-shape, aren't you?" Margaret asked, looping her arm through Sadie's. "But I must admit, it does show - there's a reason why your father's got a long list of tenants waiting to get into the swanky Becker apartments."

Sadie grinned, half amused, half proud. Her family's tenement wasn't grand or high-class by any means - it was modest and simple, and, like the other tenements in the area, it housed not the wealthy and opulent but the underprivileged and poor. Philip Becker was a good landlord, though, maintaining the property with care that was unusual for someone of his station, and doing his best to keep the rent reasonable while still turning a small profit. He had come from an impoverished background himself, and was often telling Sadie that people had been kind enough to help him and his family through the worst of things, so it was his duty to do the same for others in whatever way he could. This conviction was probably what had made him gently chide Sadie for her flippant reaction to the afternoon's earlier mishap.

"Shall we stop at Halston's first?" Margaret asked, breaking into Sadie's thoughts. "I know you're dying to see if that cunning little hat is still there." Sadie agreed, but an uneasy feeling pooled in her stomach, and she found herself not as excited by the prospect as she should have been.

The girls made their way to the millinery shop, and, sure enough, there in the window sat the smart-looking straw boater hat, trimmed with wide titian ribbon and adorned with a sweet little bow hanging down the back. Margaret gave it an admiring look before turning to her friend. "It's perfect for you, Sadie," she gushed. "Please tell me that you're finally going to buy it!"

It _was_ perfect. And Sadie knew that with the money she'd earned that afternoon, she had more than enough to cover the cost. She reached into her handbag, pulling out the small coin purse where she kept her money...

But her father's words came back to her. And, try as she might, Sadie couldn't get them out of her head. She sighed in frustration, not sure whom she was more put out by: the unnamed dark-haired Jacobs boy whose mere existence had caused this dilemma in the first place, her father, for reminding her of her privileged station in life, or her conscience, for deciding to show up at the most inopportune time. But show up it had, and it was now clamoring at her with a voice that would not be silenced.

"Sorry, Megs," Sadie said, regretfully tucking the coin purse back into her bag. "This money's for something else."

* * *

Later that evening after dinner, Sadie climbed up to the rooftop of the tenement. A gentle breeze blew through her hair, and through the many garments hanging on the clotheslines, making shirts and sheets billow playfully. A small smile tugged at Sadie's lips. She and her sisters used to play up here often, running to and fro between the always-moving clothes that could be imagined into anything - the sails of a ship about to embark, a congregation of friendly ghosts, the canvas walls of a tent in the woods...it had been a wonderful playground of sorts for them. She missed those days.

Shading her eyes from the glow of the setting sun, Sadie scanned the rows of drying garments one by one until her eyes fell upon what they were looking for: a familiar, paint-stained shirt, flapping away on the clothesline. Glancing over her shoulder to make sure no one was watching, Sadie quickly unpinned the shirt and folded it up, tucking it under her arm.

If she was quick, Mrs. Jacobs wouldn't even notice that it was missing.

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**A/N:** Thanks for giving this a chance; I know it's a bit of a slow beginning, but starting with the next chapter there will be significantly more recognizable characters and events, as well as a backstory for something I'm pretty sure no one's written a backstory for yet (as you know if you've read my other stories, coming up with random details to explain things is kind of a quirky interest of mine).

If you have a moment, please let me know what you think of this so far! I'd truly appreciate your feedback.


	2. The Landlord's Daughter

**Disclaimer: **This is a non-commercial work of fanfiction. Anything recognizable from _Newsies_ belongs to Disney and not to me.

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Chapter 2: The Landlord's Daughter

David Jacobs winced in pain as his younger brother inadvertently set a large box down on his foot. "Ow, Les! Have a care, will you?"

The younger boy looked up from under his bowler hat (which, for whatever reason, he had insisted on wearing inside that day). "Sorry, David," he apologized, quickly pulling the box back a few feet and off of his brother's foot. It had been an honest mistake; the apartment was still a disorganized mess, and Les had been hard pressed to find unoccupied floor space.

The last few days had been busy ones for the Jacobs family. The move into the tenement had gone smoothly enough, and thankfully the apartment had been spotless upon their arrival, but there was, of course, a welter of tasks to attend to: furniture to situate, dishes to unpack and reorganize, food to restock. It was rather disorienting to try to fit the everyday objects that made up one's life into a new and unfamiliar space. Nothing felt like home yet.

This morning, Les was "helping" by moving boxes here and there around the apartment while David folded the basket of laundry that had been brought down from the clothesline upstairs. It was absent-minded work, and he actually didn't mind it; it helped take his thoughts off of the melancholy feeling that had settled in his stomach ever since leaving their home to come to this new place.

Change was never easy for David. He hadn't been particularly attached to their old neighborhood and wasn't sad at all to leave it behind, but simply the thought of having to upend his routine and learn a new one in an unfamiliar place was unsettling. He knew that things would get better once he and Les started school - then, there would be uniformity to each day, the possibility of new friends to make, and at the very least, a regular schedule of scholastic tasks to keep his mind busy. But it would likely be several days before the family was settled enough to allow for that to happen. Until then, he was left to ruminate and brood.

He had nearly finished folding the pile of laundry when his mother came in the door, having returned from an errand. "David," she said, holding up a partially-unwrapped package, "do you know anything about this?"

Confused, David finished folding the garment in his hands, then walked over to examine the object that his mother was holding out to him. "I wasn't expecting anything," he said, bewildered as he pulled a plaid work shirt out of its paper wrappings. As he lifted it up for examination, a slip of paper fluttered to the floor. David stooped to pick it up, the pieces of the puzzle suddenly fitting together as he read the note written in an unfamiliar hand:

_Please accept my apologies for the accident last week involving the paint. I hope you will accept this as a replacement. I got the measurements from your shirt on the clothesline, but if the fit isn't right, let me know. I work for a tailor and can arrange for alterations if needed. _

_-Sadie Becker_

"Well, that certainly was thoughtful of her," his mother remarked, reading over his shoulder.

"Yeah...it was." David put the note on the table, examining the shirt again. The white band collar made it more casual than what he normally wore to school, and he didn't think that blue was really his color...but the garment was well-made and new, and it looked like it would fit.

He was surprised that the girl - Sadie - had thought to replace his paint-stained shirt. Even though she'd clearly been sorry for the mishap, David had seen the merriment in her eyes and her poorly-concealed amusement at his predicament. It had miffed him somewhat, but he wasn't petty enough to press the issue, especially not with the landlord's daughter. Instead, he'd stiffly brushed off her apology, and then, having discharged his duty of delivering the rent payment, had taken his leave, secretly thinking that she was a rather careless girl and hoping that he wouldn't have any run-ins with her in the future.

But she had surprised him. And now, he supposed he would have to see her again...to thank her for the shirt, if nothing else.

Shaking his head in an attempt to clear his thoughts, David went back to sorting the laundry.

* * *

Surprisingly, it was nearly a week before they crossed paths. David tried in vain to visit the landlord's office in an effort to catch Sadie, but she was never there when he stopped by, and he didn't feel comfortable enough to knock on the door of the Becker apartment. A note seemed too impersonal. So he uneasily let the situation be. The work shirt turned out to be comfortable and an accurate fit, and David found himself wearing it more often than he'd expected, especially on days when his mother needed him to run errands since the formality of his school attire wasn't necessary.

It was on one such a day that he was making his way back to the tenement from the grocer's, burdened with several heavy bags of foodstuffs. He had stopped briefly to re-adjust the weight on his shoulders when he heard a voice behind him remark playfully, "Blue's a good color on you."

David turned in surprise to see Sadie Becker perusing him (or, more accurately, his shirt) with an approving smile. "And it looks like I wasn't too off in my measurements, either," she added, sounding pleased.

"The fit was perfect," David replied, a little taken aback by her friendliness, but eager to clear the air if she was.

With another easy smile, the girl extended her hand. "We didn't get off to a good start, and it was my fault. I hope you'll give me another chance…"

"David," he finished, shaking her proffered hand. "Thank you for the shirt; you didn't have to do that, you know."

Sadie gave a little shrug. "It's just a shirt," she quipped. Before David could reply, she motioned to the bags of groceries. "Are you on your way back home?" she asked. "Let me help you with that."

David protested. "Oh, no, that's all right. I - " But Sadie had already taken one of the smaller bags from his hands, and he found himself quickly shouldering the rest and walking along beside her towards the tenement.

"So, will you be starting at school soon?" Sadie asked conversationally.

"I hope so," David sighed. "It's just been too busy - my dad started a new job, so he's been working long hours, and my brother and I have had to help our mom out more. It might be a while before things settle down enough for us to get away."

Sadie shook her head, saying carelessly, "Don't worry, you're not missing much...I actually find our lessons and schoolmaster quite tedious."

David fell silent, unsure of what to say in response to her flippant remark. They continued walking, Sadie apparently unruffled by his lack of an answer, and David quietly agonizing over how to convey his differing opinion on scholastic endeavors without offending her.

Before he could think of something suitable to say, they arrived at the tenement, climbing the stairs to the Jacobs' apartment on the second floor. David opened the door, ushering Sadie inside and catching the attention of his mother who was at the sink in the middle of scrubbing a bowl of potatoes clean. Les was shelling peas at the kitchen table.

"Sadie, this is my mom and my little brother Les," David said. "Mom, Les - this is Mr. Becker's daughter, Sadie."

"You mean the girl who ruined your favorite shirt?" Les asked, looking up from the peas and staring at Sadie curiously. David winced in embarrassment, and Esther quickly hushed the younger boy, but to their surprise, Sadie laughed, a little self-consciously.

"Yes, that's me, I'm afraid," she admitted. "It probably could have been avoided if I'd listened to David's advice about getting a ladder." She gave Les a slightly teasing smile, her eyes mischievous. "I'm sure you're much smarter than me. You must follow his advice all the time."

Les snorted. "Hardly!" he declared. "I'd never have any fun if I did."

Esther Jacobs shook her head, her expression one of mixed exasperation and fondness. "I apologize, Sadie, for Les' cheekiness," she said, "but it's lovely to meet you. And it was very kind of you to replace David's shirt. I always thought that blue was an agreeable color on him."

Unhappy to find himself the subject of discussion, David quickly broke in. "Here are the groceries, Mom," he said, setting down his bags and taking the one from Sadie with a quiet word of thanks. "I'll leave the change on the table."

"Would you like to stay for dinner, Sadie?" Esther asked. "It's the least I can do when David's made you trudge all the way here, carrying our groceries like a pack mule."

David made a sound of protest. "I didn't - I wouldn't -" He glanced helplessly at Sadie, who let him flounder a bit before mercifully replying.

"Thank you so much, Mrs. Jacobs, but I actually have to get back home. Perhaps another time, though? I'm sure you're a wonderful cook."

"Of course. Come by any time," Esther said with a smile.

Reiterating her thanks, Sadie turned to the boy at the table. "Goodbye, Les," she said. "It was nice to meet you - and it's certainly a relief to know that I'm not the only one around here who doesn't listen to David's good advice." She winked at the aforementioned boy before giving Les a conspiratorial half-smile. "I'll see you around."

"See you around, Sadie," Les replied, grinning. As the door clicked closed behind her, he turned to his brother. "I like her," he declared. "You ought to bring her around more often."

"If you like her so much, why don't you bring her around yourself?" David asked, a bit peevishly. He felt irrationally discomfited and couldn't pinpoint why. There was something about Sadie's easy, familiar manner that threw him off balance. It wasn't exactly an unpleasant feeling...but David disliked it all the same.

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**A/N**: Let this chapter be proof positive that 1) a backstory can be developed for anything, including Davey's Act 2 shirt (though this is still pre-strike - thank you, ChibiDawn23, for noting that), and 2) this writer's mind works in rather eccentric ways. :)

Thanks for reading! Please let me know what you thought!


	3. Looking for a Story

**Disclaimer: **This is a non-commercial work of fanfiction. Anything recognizable from _Newsies_ belongs to Disney and not to me.

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Chapter 3: Looking for a Story

Katherine Plumber let out an undignified sneeze. At this point, she didn't care if she never saw another poinsettia or peony ever again. Sniffling, she tucked her pen and pad of paper under her arm, pulled a handkerchief from her purse, and dabbed at her nose as the botanist at the head of the gaggle of reporters continued his droning lecture.

Tucking her handkerchief away, Katherine scribbled down a few notes on her notepad, doing her best to attend to the man's presentation and to the questions of her counterparts. The cloying floral scent that hung in the air and the persistent tickling in her nose weren't helping her concentration, however.

Of all the functions she was regularly assigned to cover, she hated the flower shows the most. How could one possibly be content waxing eloquent about the newest cultivar of magnolia when there were much more pressing issues that demanded attention? She had nothing against horticultural diversions, but she was young and ambitious, the possessor of a ready wit and an eager pen, and the last thing she wanted to be doing was wheezing her way through a flower show when she could be out writing hard news.

Deciding she'd endured this misery long enough, Katherine quietly slipped away from the group of reporters and made her way out of the exhibition hall that hosted the flower show. She had already amassed a list of notable attendees, a few quotes from the president of the Society of American Florists, and her scattered summary of the botanist's lecture, which she knew collectively would be enough for her article. It wouldn't be riveting stuff, but it would be pass muster.

Turning her footsteps towards Printing House Square, Katherine took a deep breath, grateful for the freely-circulating air outdoors. It was a lovely day. The sun was out, but there was just enough of a breeze to keep the heat from being unbearable. And, most importantly, there was not a single flower in sight.

"Spare some change for a boy down on his luck, Miss?" A voice broke into Katherine's thoughts, and she looked down to see a ragged-looking lad holding out a grimy cup. He couldn't have been much older than ten, and his hand was wrapped in a dirty bandage.

Katherine dug into her purse, feeling the familiar ache of compassion welling up in her chest. "What happened to your hand?" she asked gently, as she dropped a coin into the boy's cup.

The youngster jerked a thumb over his shoulder at a small figure huddled against a wall a few yards away. "Me and my brother was breaker boys, miss, until we got into an accident at the factory. His foot got crushed, and I lost a part of a finger, so now we's both out of work." He peered into the cup, and his eyes widened. "Geez, Miss!" he exclaimed. "We's gonna be able to eat for three days on this. Thank you!" He ran off excitedly towards his brother, and Katherine continued walking slowly down the street, glancing just once over her shoulder at the pair of boys before they were lost from sight.

_Now there was a story just waiting to be told_, she thought soberly.

Concern for the plight of New York's working children had affected Katherine for as long as she could remember. As a young girl, she'd gazed out of the window of her home in the early morning hours, watching as a stream of boys trudged past every day on their way to the coal mines. In the cold weather, they'd huddled together, shivering and gaunt, trying to keep warm, while Katherine, from inside, had sipped hot chocolate and waited for her private tutor to arrive for the morning's lessons. It had been a striking contrast, and Katherine could still recall the uneasy feeling that had settled in her heart as she watched those boys pass by on the street, not completely understanding their situation, but inherently knowing that it was vastly different from hers. She remembered naively wishing that she could invite them all in, out of the cold, to have a cup of hot chocolate with her.

As she grew older, her awareness grew, and so did her determination to do something about the uneasy feeling that still crept in whenever she saw an injured breaker boy begging on the street, or heard the piping voice of a young newsboy hawking headlines late into the night long after the sun had gone down. This determination among other things, was what had led Katherine to become a reporter.

It hadn't exactly turned out the way she'd expected.

Katherine sighed. She liked her job at _The Sun_, and was grateful that the editors there had given her a chance to write at all...but the restlessness that she'd been feeling for months now was steadily growing, and it was getting harder and harder to review yet another vaudeville act or art exhibition while watching the world, with all of its weighty and perplexing problems, spin by. There had to be something more she could do. After all, if Nellie Bly could go undercover to investigate a lunatic asylum, surely Katherine Plumber could get the story on the working conditions in the garment factories, or uncover the dark secrets surrounding the young laborers who toiled in the coal mines. There were thousands of working children, all over New York, whose voices went unheard, their owners exploited, invisible. It wasn't right, and it sat ill with Katherine that, despite her relative position and privilege, there was little that she could do about it.

Climbing the steps to the office of _The Sun_, Katherine transversed the lobby and hurried up the stairs to her office on the third floor. It wasn't an office, actually - more like a little alcove with just enough room for her desk, a chair, and a typewriter, but she was thankful to have even the tiny space to call her own.

The floor was a hive of activity. "How was the flower show, Kath?" Lena McClain, copy editor for the entertainment pages, fell into step beside Katherine as the reporter made her way across the room to her desk.

"Oh, the usual," Katherine replied with a wave of her hand. "Vapid and strongly perfumed." Arriving at her desk, she sat down and stowed her belongings away in the drawer before placing a fresh sheet of paper in her typewriter.

Lena gave her a sympathetic look. "I know it's not the big story you've been hoping for, but you do such good work, Katherine - someone's bound to notice soon. Don't be too discouraged, all right? If you decide to up and leave, I don't know what I'd do without you."

"The feeling is certainly mutual," Katherine replied with a small smile. She and Lena were two of the few women who worked on the third floor, so they'd stuck together since day one, the veteran Lena taking Katherine under her wing and helping her adjust until the brand-new reporter had found her footing at _The Sun_. Even now, they maintained a close and cordial working relationship, and Lena was the only one (in or out of the office) who truly knew how dissatisfied Katherine had been as of late.

"Well, I'll leave you to your review," Lena said, giving Katherine a nod. "When you're done with your draft, just drop it off at my desk. I'll be in meetings all afternoon, but I'll look for it tonight before I leave."

"Thanks, Lena," Katherine replied. She pulled out her notes from the flower show, ready to get to work. It was already well into the afternoon, so she would need to focus in order to complete her article in a timely manner.

Just as she had begun typing, an oily, self-assured voice broke into her thoughts.

"So tell me, Katherine, what's _The Sun_'_s _prettiest reporter doing after work tonight?"

Trying to hide her irritation, Katherine looked up from her typewriter, schooling her features into what she hoped was a vaguely pleasant but not inviting look. She didn't have time for this. She _really_ just wanted to write her article.

"I'm flattered, Mr. Raber," she answered, giving the man in front of her desk a thin smile, "but I actually have plans tonight." It was a bit of a lie - she didn't exactly have set plans, per se - but she'd make Darcy take her out to see a show or something. Anything to get away from the assistant editor at _The Sun_, who, despite Katherine's clear and unwavering lack of interest, had persisted in trying to get her to go out with him and refused to take no for an answer.

The man raised an eyebrow at her. "You _always_ seem to have plans," he said derisively, shaking his head. "It's really too bad." He rested his hands on her desk, leaning towards her and adding quietly, "Perhaps if you weren't so _busy_, Katherine, you'd realize that you could be doing yourself - and your career - a favor if you'd just say 'yes' to my invitations every once in a while."

Katherine's hands, resting in her lap underneath her desk, clenched in anger at his insinuation, and it was on the tip of her tongue to say something scathing in reply. She knew that Clarence Raber wasn't interested in her for her lively personality, her intelligence, or even for her writerly skill (his few perfunctory comments on her articles had convinced her of that). To him, she was just a pretty face and nothing more. And she could have boxed him for thinking that, for thinking that she'd be low enough to advance her career through means other than hard work and a track record that spoke for itself. But, sadly, decking the man would mean losing her job. And Katherine, while admittedly hot-headed at times, wasn't short-sighted enough to allow a smarmy, patronizing jerk like him to derail her career.

Taking her silence for wavering indecision, Raber said, a bit smugly, "If you're interested, my offer remains."

"Thank you," Katherine said stiffly. "But I really am quite busy." She began typing again, pointedly fixing her eyes on the paper in front of her.

The assistant editor straightened up, chuckling. "I'll win you over yet, Katherine," he said, wagging a finger condescendingly at her before finally walking away.

As soon as he disappeared, Katherine sighed, stopped typing and sat back. She stared at the nearly-blank page in her typewriter, her concentration broken. It was all in a day's work, dealing with men like Raber, but it certainly wasn't the kind of work she'd signed up for when she'd decided to become a reporter, and while she'd become proficient at dismissing unwanted advances, it didn't make dealing with them any less unpleasant.

Shaking her head, she once again put her fingers to the keys, willing herself to push aside her less-than-charitable thoughts and to write. These small annoyances - the meaningless, dull reporting assignments and the unsolicited attention - had a way of wearing on her, but she would not give up or give in. She needed to be patient. There was something more, waiting just beyond her reach. Katherine wasn't sure what it was, or how she even knew that it was coming. (Perhaps it was a reporter's intuition, or something deeper than that - she couldn't tell). But as her restlessness over the past few months had grown, so had an unwavering certainty that there was a big story coming, just waiting to be broken. It might surprise her any day now. She just needed to keep her eyes and ears open.

* * *

**A/N: **Nellie Bly, as many of you fansies know, was a ground-breaking historical figure, a female reporter who worked for (guess who?) Joseph Pulitzer and _The World_. Katherine's character was apparently inspired by the real-life Ms. Bly, so I thought it would be interesting to write the latter into the story, since historically, if Katherine had been a real person working in the journalism world in 1899, she would most likely have been familiar with Bly's work.


	4. Amiable Accosting

**Disclaimer: **This is a non-commercial work of fanfiction. Anything recognizable from _Newsies_ belongs to Disney and not to me.

* * *

Chapter 4: Amiable Accosting

"Abby! Come on, we'll be late for school!" Sadie called for the third time that morning. She glanced impatiently at the clock on the wall. It wasn't that she particularly cared about missing a few minutes of class, but their schoolmaster punished tardiness, and, while Sadie generally didn't mind being the center of attention, that was not the kind of attention she enjoyed.

Miriam Becker, who was sitting by the window darning a hole in a sock, gave her daughter a slightly disapproving frown. "Sadie, please just walk over to the bedroom and tell your sister what you need to say. It's rude to yell."

Sadie, trying to hide her exasperation, was about to comply, when her little sister appeared. "Let's go," Sadie said, tucking her arm around her lunch pail and slate and extending her free hand to Abigail. The girls bid farewell to their mother, then made their way downstairs to the street, which was already busy with people milling about on their morning business.

"Sadie, slow down!" Abby protested as her older sister nearly dragged her along. "We aren't going to be _that _late!"

"Sorry, Abby, but I'd rather not chance it," Sadie murmured, but she did slow her pace, suddenly distracted by a commotion brewing in the square several yards away. It appeared to be a confrontation between a few of the newsboys waiting in line for their papers at the distribution center of the _New York World_. As Sadie slowed to a stop, she watched as one of the taller figures shoved a small boy to the ground, inciting yells of protest from the onlookers. Peering closer, Sadie recognized the offender who was currently nose-to-nose with an irate, well-built newsie. The latter had pushed his way to the front of the crowd and was now standing protectively over the fallen boy.

This wasn't a confrontation _between_ newsboys, then, she corrected herself. It was a tussle between the newsboys and a familiar pair of trouble-making brothers.

"Sadie...isn't that Oscar? And Morris?" Abby asked, confirming her suspicions.

"Yes," Sadie answered grimly. Taking her younger sister firmly by the shoulders, she began steering her down the street. "Come on," she said. "Whatever this is, we don't want to get mixed up in it."

* * *

Later that morning, Sadie rested her chin in her hand, trying not to stare out of the window as her mind wandered from her school book. It was nearly time for noon recess, and she always found it particularly hard to focus during this time of day when the tantalizing promise of near (if temporal) freedom was calling.

Idly surveying her classmates from her seat near the back of the schoolhouse, she observed their varying degrees of restlessness as they too waited impatiently for recess to be called. A few of the younger pupils fidgeted uncomfortably, while others shot surreptitious glances at the clock hanging above the blackboard. Even some of the older students showed visible signs of agitation, though most of them hid it better. There was one, however, who didn't seem to be affected in the slightest. Sitting a few rows in front of Sadie, David was bent studiously over his book.

She wondered how he was adjusting. The Jacobs brothers had only been attending school for about a week, and while Les had quickly made friends with Abby and several other children his age, David seemed to keep to himself, whether from shyness or simply from preference, she couldn't tell.

Chewing her lip thoughtfully, Sadie stared out of the window, her eyes fixating on the blue strip of cloudless sky that rose above Manhattan's many buildings. Perhaps she should invite David to eat lunch with her today. She wasn't sure what he did during their hour-long recess; some pupils went home, but she'd noticed Les eating with her sister and a handful of other children, so David must have been around. Most of the older students, Sadie and her friends among them, usually walked down the street to the park to eat their lunches. She felt a little badly that she hadn't thought to ask David to go along with them.

_I'm trying, Papa. I really am. _

Sadie sighed.

"Miss Becker, if you would kindly stop staring out of the window and bring your attention back to your book, I'd be obliged," came the dry and none-too-amused voice of her schoolmaster.

Jumping a bit at the reprimand, Sadie blushed slightly as several pupils turned to stare at her. She ducked her head, embarrassed that she'd been caught daydreaming. "Yes, sir," she answered, quickly training her eyes on her book.

Just as she'd managed to re-focus her mind on the lesson, recess was called, and the schoolroom came alive with activity, students hurriedly organizing their belongings and filing out the door, eager for their break. Sadie closed her book, set it atop her slate in the corner of her desk, and grabbed her lunch pail, walking over to Margaret who was already waiting at the door.

"Megs, you and the others can go along without me," Sadie said. "I'll catch you at the park."

Her friend gave her a curious look. "Is everything all right?"

Sadie nodded. "I'm just going to see if David wants to join us."

"The new boy?" Margaret sounded doubtful. "He seems so reserved."

Sadie privately agreed, but only said jokingly, "Perhaps. But I'm almost willing to bet that there's a talker underneath that quiet exterior."

Margaret laughed. "Good thing you're not a betting girl, then!" She reached out her hand for Sadie's lunch pail. "I'll take this for you. Good luck," she said, still sounding skeptical. Sadie nodded her thanks, then turned to look for David.

He was already on his way towards the door, his book tucked under his arm and what looked like a paper-wrapped sandwich in his hand. Catching sight of her, he nodded briefly in acknowledgement and was about to pass by, when Sadie fell into step beside him.

"Hi, David," she said brightly. "Mind if I walk with you for a bit?"

David glanced at her in surprise. "I'm not really headed anywhere," he answered, "but no...I don't mind." His tone conveyed rather the opposite, but Sadie forged ahead.

"I just thought that maybe you'd want to join some of us for lunch," she offered as they exited the school room. "We usually go down the street to the park. There's a nice lawn that's good for picnics, and we play the most amusing games..." Seeing that her neighbor did not appear at all interested, she quickly changed her tactic, adding in a conspiratorial voice, "and sometimes, if no one's watching, a few of us even climb the trees!"

"That sounds dangerous," David remarked, looking a little perturbed.

Sadie secretly congratulated herself on having drawn him out. "It's great fun," she assured him. Now _this_ she could work with.

David regarded her seriously. "After what happened last time, with the paint...don't you think you should be a little more concerned about falling?" he asked.

Sadie saw her opening. "Not if you'll be there to catch me!"

Her pertness had its desired effect.

"If - I'll- " David stumbled over his words, flustered.

Taking advantage of his momentary disorientation, Sadie pressed her case. "Come on, David," she coaxed gently. "Just give it a try. I promise, it will be fun. And I'll even refrain from climbing anything remotely dangerous for the next few weeks if it will get you to say 'yes.'" Giving him her most cajoling smile, she watched as he rubbed the back of his neck uncomfortably, clearly torn.

"That's a promise?" he asked finally, still sounding hesitant.

Sadie nodded. "You have my word." Before David could change his mind, she motioned down the street, saying eagerly, "Come on, let's catch up with the others." As she hurried towards the park with her reluctant neighbor in tow, Sadie allowed herself a small smile.

Victory was sweet.

* * *

Les clambered up the stairs to the Jacobs' apartment as David trailed after him, carrying their slates and school books. He was relieved to be back home again, as it had been an unexpectedly taxing day, but as he took the stairs two at a time, he found himself filled with an odd sense of satisfaction.

Being back in school for the past week or so had brought about a comforting normalcy. David didn't particularly enjoy being the new kid in class, but he had always enjoyed learning, and he was happy to find himself back among books and blackboards, getting a chance to exercise his mind and to read to his heart's content. It was a familiar setting with predictable, clear-cut expectations, and he reveled in it. The morning lessons passed by quickly as he pored over his book, and then he would take a short walk outside to eat his lunch during the hour-long break before eagerly resuming his study when class was called back to session. The last several days had passed by in this pleasant manner, and David had felt settled and content (if perhaps a bit solitary).

But today, his routine had been interrupted, and he had found himself unexpectedly (if amiably) accosted by Sadie Becker, who, for some unknown reason, had gotten it into her head to convince him to accompany her to the park for lunch with the rest of her friends.

David's first impulse had been to decline the invitation. He had been looking forward to finding a quiet place to read and eat his lunch and didn't relish the thought of spending his free time with a group of rambunctious (if well-meaning) peers. But, having changed schools several times over the course of his seventeen years of life, he knew that first impressions had a way of sticking. If he wanted to make friends at this new school, he knew that he would have to make an effort, and Sadie was making things even easier by inviting him in.

And then, of course, there had been the additional matter of her rather...unconventional persuasion.

So he had said yes.

To his surprise, it hadn't turned out as badly as he'd expected. Sadie's friends _were_ a rather boisterous lot, and he found himself often feeling out of place amongst their spirited conversations and frequent jokes, but they were a good-natured bunch, and they welcomed him into their group without ceremony. Eventually realizing that he preferred to listen rather than talk after a few failed attempts to draw him out, they had respectfully let him be. (They would have, perhaps, completely forgotten that he was there, had Sadie not subtly included him in the conversation in ways that acknowledged his presence but did not single him out for a response. He wasn't exactly sure how she managed to do this, but he was grateful to her for it).

And so, David had lost his hour of reading time, but he had gained a group of friendly acquaintances who could, perhaps with time, become friends. And to his surprise, this prospect was the source of the strange satisfaction he felt as he climbed the stairs at the end of a long but rewarding day.

"What are you smiling about?" Les demanded as he waited for his brother to catch up.

"Oh, nothing, Les," David replied. He hadn't even noticed the small grin that had crept onto his face as he'd mused. Reaching the landing, he began fishing in his pocket for the key to the apartment as he and Les made their way down the hallway.

David unlocked the door and pushed it open, letting Les go in first but nearly stumbling over him as the younger boy stopped abruptly a few feet beyond the threshold. David's eyes scanned the apartment, trying to figure out what had caused Les' sudden immobility, and then he saw his mother, and his heart sank, fear quickly replacing the short-lived contentment that he had been feeling only moments before.

Esther Jacobs was sitting at the kitchen table, her face in her hands, nearly shaking as she attempted to control her emotions. David hurried over to her. "Mom, what's wrong?" he asked, alarmed.

His mother looked up, first at him, and then at Les, tears streaming down her face. David took her hand, squeezing it gently as Les, recovering his ability to move, ran over to his mother and threw his arms around her as she struggled to compose herself.

"It's all right, Mom," David said as soothingly as he could. "It's all right...we're here."

Seeming to draw strength from her sons' presence, Esther gradually regained some of her composure. She dried her eyes on the handkerchief David silently offered, giving him a grateful look, then wrapped her arms around Les, resting her cheek atop her younger son's head.

"What's wrong, Mom?" Les asked, his voice small and scared.

Esther gave a watery sigh, then straightened up, looking both of her sons in the eye. "Les, David…" Her voice wavered. "It's your father."

* * *

**A/N**: Poor Mr. and Mrs. Jacobs...and poor Davey - his fledgling routine is about to be upended once again ("Where does it say a guy can't catch a break?" The writer's notes, that's where).

As always, I'd love to hear your thoughts on this chapter! (Anyone have predictions on how the Beckers and the Delanceys are connected? Predictions on whether or not Davey will ever get his feet under him enough to form an articulate response to Sadie's teasing? (Don't worry - he will!))

Thanks for reading, and please do let me know what you thought! :)


	5. Today and Tomorrow

**Disclaimer: **This is a non-commercial work of fanfiction. Anything recognizable from _Newsies_ belongs to Disney and not to me.

* * *

Chapter 5: Today and Tomorrow

"Sadie, it's getting late. You ought to be heading home."

Looking up from the skirt she was hemming, Sadie gave her elderly employer a little smile. "Thank you, Mr. Gorham," she said gratefully. "I'm afraid I lost track of the time." Folding the skirt carefully, she placed it in the basket of garments she had been working on, then tucked her thimble away in her purse.

"At least the sun stays out longer on these summer days," Walter Gorham observed. "You'll be able to make it home with daylight to spare."

Sadie nodded, gathering her things. "I love these long evenings - there's so much more you can do with just a few extra hours of light." She looked around to make sure that everything was as it should be before bidding her employer farewell. "I'll see you tomorrow afternoon, Mr. Gorham," she said. "Please let Mrs. Gorham know that I wish her a quick recovery."

"I will, Sadie," he replied. "You be careful, now, on your way home."

As Sadie left the tailor's shop, she paused for a brief moment to take in the effect of the lengthening shadows and to let the early-evening breeze stir through her hair. The days where she went directly from school to her job at Gorham's felt long, but she made it a point to enjoy her solitary walks to and from the tailor's. She didn't often feel the desire or the need to be alone, but it was nice to be able to clear her head every once in a while, especially since Margaret was kind enough to walk Abby back to the tenement on the days Sadie went to work.

With a small smile of contentment, Sadie turned her steps towards home, setting a brisk pace to make up for her late departure. Her family's tenement was a good several blocks away, but the familiar walk passed by quickly enough, and, as Walter Gorham had predicted, Sadie made it home well before the sun had dropped low in the sky.

Peeking her head into the landlord's office, Sadie gave a quick wave to her father, then let herself into the apartment next door where the Beckers resided. It was one of the largest apartments in the tenement, featuring a small entryway and sitting room along with the standard kitchen area and bedrooms that the more spacious units boasted.

After hanging her hat on a hook by the door, Sadie made her way over to the sitting room where her sister Lilly was resting on the sofa. "Hi, Lil," Sadie said, dropping down to sit beside the older girl. "I'm sorry I'm late," she apologized. "I got caught up in some things at work." Lilly's gaze was flat and unblinking, but a flicker of recognition crossed her face at Sadie's words, and her lips curved into a slight smile.

"School was tedious, as usual…" Sadie continued, resting her head on her sister's shoulder. "There's nothing really worth mentioning there. Margaret brought some chocolates from the confectionery, and we all shared them during our recess. Oh! And I did manage to convince our neighbor to come eat lunch at the park," she added. "I don't think you've met him yet, Lil. His name is David, and his family lives on the second floor - "

"Sadie," her mother called from the kitchen. "Will you please help Lilly to the table and give her her dinner?"

"Yes, Mama," Sadie replied. "Come on, Lil," she said, standing up and helping her sister to her feet. They made their way slowly to the kitchen, Sadie adjusting her pace to accommodate her sister's shuffling gait. Once she'd gotten Lilly settled in her chair, Sadie went over to the stove where her mother had set the dinner out.

"Mama," she said, as she spooned some potatoes onto Lilly's plate, "Mrs. Gorham's sick again. Do you think we could cook her some soup this week?"

Miriam Becker nodded. "That should be fine. I'll need you to pick up some things at the store, though."

"Abby and I will go on our way home from school," Sadie promised, adding some chicken and carrots to her sister's plate. She returned to the table to cut up the food, then placed it in front of Lilly. "Careful, Lil," she murmured. "It's a bit warm still." Once her sister had begun eating, Sadie went to get her own food. A minute or two later, Abby joined them.

"Mmm, dinner looks delicious, Mama!" she exclaimed, peering at Sadie's plate and snatching a carrot off of it before her older sister could react.

"You _could_ just get your own food, you know," Sadie groused good-naturedly. She was used to Abby stealing her food, but still made a point to call her little sister on it. Abby shrugged carelessly, but did take the full plate her mother offered before sitting down with her sisters at the table.

"How was work?" she asked Sadie, digging into her meal.

"Busy," the other girl answered. "But busy is always good for business."

Abby chewed thoughtfully on a mouthful of carrots. "I don't understand why you work so much, Sadie," she remarked. "Aren't Papa's odd jobs enough?"

Sadie shrugged. "I like to keep busy. And, if I remember correctly, you liked the hair ribbons I brought you last month, and the cookies from two weeks ago...did you ever think about how I managed to get them?" She gave her sister a teasing look. "Or are you of the opinion that I can just conjure those things out of thin air?"

Abby frowned a little at Sadie's mild jab, but before she could answer, Lilly jerked forward, nearly upsetting the cup of water next to her plate. Her sisters acted on instinct, Sadie putting her arm comfortingly around Lilly, and Abby moving the plate and cup out of reach. The seizure was a mild one, and within seconds Lilly's body relaxed.

"You all done, Lil?" Abby asked tentatively. Her sister made a sound of affirmation, and Abby pushed the plate and cup back to their places.

"That was quick," Sadie murmured, patting Lilly on the back. She glanced over her shoulder. "How many has she had today, Mama?"

"Nine, counting that one," Miriam replied wearily.

Sadie nodded. It was a few more than Lilly normally had, but thankfully the most recent one hadn't lasted long. Giving her older sister another soothing pat, Sadie returned to her meal, shooting a warning glance at Abby, who had finished her carrots and was about to snatch another one from her sister's plate.

The Beckers' lives moved to an uneven rhythm of the routine and the unsettling, but things eventually, always, somehow returned to normal.

* * *

David lay in bed, staring at the ceiling, listening to the sound of his brother's quiet even breathing. Les had been visibly upset upon hearing the news of his father's accident, and it had fallen to the equally (though less obviously) distressed David to console him. Thankfully, Les was tired and had been soothed by a few comforting words and by his older brother's familiar presence, so it hadn't taken long for him to fall asleep.

Unfortunately, sleep was far from David's mind that night.

He sat up, swinging his legs over the side of the bed, and rose quietly, careful not to wake Les. A light was on under the door of his parents' bedroom, and he padded past, not wanting to disturb them. He'd already had a brief conversation with his father once Les had gone to sleep, and he guessed that his parents were probably discussing matters now before they went to bed.

David hesitated a moment before quietly letting himself out of the apartment. He made his way up to the rooftop of the tenement, a place he'd been to often enough during the day to help his mother with the laundry. The summer evening air felt hot and oppressive, but at least there was a bit of a breeze, and, more importantly, it was a solitary place to reflect. Taking several deep breaths, David told himself to relax, unclenching his hands which had involuntarily curled themselves into fists as he reflected on the events of the last few hours.

His first response to his mother's tearful disclosure had been fear for his father's wellbeing, then following quickly on the heels of that fear, a flaring anger. His father's accident had been unfortunate, of course, but the layoff was what truly incensed David. He was sure that the men in power, safely removed from the suffering of the workers they were exploiting, had little thought or care for what the termination of Mayer Jacobs' employment truly meant. They only cared about their bottom line, and the instant David's father had been injured, he had become a liability. What did it matter, then, if cutting him loose could mean the destitution of his entire family? He was no longer an asset, so they had dismissed him without a further thought. And there was nothing that could be done about it, no bargain to strike, no advocacy to be had, and no recourse for the unfortunate family that suddenly found itself floundering in the wake of a single event that had turned their world upside down.

The coldhearted injustice of it all infuriated David...but if there was one thing he'd become good at, it was keeping his anger (and indeed, most of his feelings) in check. So he'd quickly tamped down his emotions while outwardly remaining calm, comforting his mother and consoling Les as the situation demanded. He would deal with his anger another time. There was no place for it at the moment.

After the initial concern for his father had been appeased and the anger pushed aside, David's practical mind had immediately turned to the logistics of his family's predicament: his father's leg would likely take at least a month or more to heal, so it would be a while before he would be able to recover sufficiently to find a new job and resume working. This meant that David and Les would need to find work so that the family could make ends meet in the interim. Their options for employment were fairly limited - they could look for jobs at one of the factories or coal mines, but David had seen the injuries sustained by breaker boys smaller than his brother, and the thought of Les suffering the same fate was unbearable, so he'd immediately pushed that thought to the back of his mind.

It was then that he'd remembered the newsboys.

He'd seen them all over the city, had been aggressively approached by them on more than one occasion. It wasn't the kind of work that appealed to David, and he certainly couldn't see himself having much aptitude for a profession requiring such canny boldness. But it would keep Les out of the coal mines. So David decided that they would sell for _The World_. The distribution center wasn't far from the tenement, and the publication was a popular one. His father and mother had approved of the idea, and it was settled that David and Les would head to the distribution center early the next morning. Logistical details resolved, David had been given some final words of admonition by his father, and then had been instructed to go to bed so that he could get enough rest for tomorrow.

_Tomorrow..._

Tomorrow, he would exchange his slate and schoolbooks for a newsboy bag and a heavy stack of papers.

Tomorrow, his mind, accustomed to pondering scholastic questions, would be tasked with quickly figuring out how to sell as many editions of _The World_ as possible.

Tomorrow, his voice, usually reserved and deliberate, would be used to shout the headlines on street corners.

Tomorrow, quiet, reflective schoolboy David Jacobs would have to find a way to become an assertive, attention-grabbing newsboy - or else he and his entire family would eventually starve. He didn't think he had it in him. But that didn't matter now.

_You've got to be the breadwinner for this family, David. _

_Your school lessons will have to wait. _

_We're depending on you, son. Make good choices, keep your guard up, and look out for Les. _

David's shoulders sagged, the weight of his father's words suddenly pressing down almost unbearably as they raced through his mind. He hadn't shown any emotion at first, simply nodding respectfully to his father and trying to marshal his expression into a look of determined resolve, but now that he was alone, his emotions came rushing back, strong and relentless like the wind off of the harbor that whipped up the waves, setting unanchored boats adrift. And to his surprise, it was not the anger that surfaced, but the fear.

David buried his head in his arms as his emotions threatened to overwhelm him. _Please, God,_ he pleaded. _Please don't let me fail. _He didn't know what tomorrow would bring, and the weight of the unknown was nearly crushing.

He stayed there on the rooftop until the noises of the sleeping city had all but died out and clamor in his head had dwindled to a hum, dulled by his lack of sleep. He knew that he should be getting back to bed; he didn't want his parents to worry, and he probably shouldn't have even come up to the rooftop in the first place...

But here he could finally let his guard down without upsetting anyone, so he allowed himself this one small indulgence, giving himself permission on the secluded rooftop to let the mask of calm acceptance slip, to ask himself the questions he was too afraid to answer, and to mourn the loss of the stability he'd craved and had nearly attained before it was abruptly torn away from him.

David knew that when tomorrow came, there would be no time for mourning.

* * *

**A/N: **The character of Lilly Becker is afflicted with a rare type of epilepsy that typically shows itself in early childhood and affects both cognitive and social development. Institutionalization of persons with disabilities was more common during this time period, so the Becker family's decision to keep Lilly at home would have been slightly unusual.

I know this was kind of a heavy installment (narrative exposition + angsty!Davey do not a fluffy chapter make), but I'd still love to hear what your thoughts were on this chapter!


	6. The Newsies

**Disclaimer: **This is a non-commercial work of fanfiction. Anything recognizable from _Newsies_ belongs to Disney and not to me.

* * *

Chapter 6: The Newsies

David guided Les over to the queue of newsboys, pushing down the nervous feeling in his stomach and trying to look as unobtrusive as possible. It was probably a lost cause; he and his brother stuck out like sore thumbs among the jostling, scruffy crowd, and David had already overheard more than one disparaging remark about their "fancy" attire and unexpected appearance in line.

It was early in the morning, and he and Les should have been passing the distribution center on their way to school, not waiting in line to sell papers. But things had taken a turn for the unexpected.

Straining to overhear the conversations taking place at the circulation window as the jocular newsboys paid for their papers and hounded the exasperated-looking Mr. Wiesel, David's fingers played nervously with the change in his pocket. He wasn't sure how many newspapers he should buy; he didn't want to take too few and end up with nothing to sell later in the day, but if he took too many, he wasn't sure if the distribution center would buy them back or not.

Most of the boys ahead of him seemed to be purchasing fifty newspapers, so David figured that he would start out conservatively and take twenty. If he ended up managing to sell his entire stock that morning, he'd be more ambitious when it came time to purchase the afternoon edition. No sooner had he settled on this course of action, than it was his turn.

"Hey, look lively, new kid!" Wiesel barked, motioning for David to move forward. "We don't have all day."

_New kid_ \- well, he'd been called worse. Stepping up to the window, David said politely, "I'd like twenty newspapers, please."

"Give him twenty, Oscar!" Wiesel ordered.

David placed his dime on the counter. "If I don't sell them all, you'll buy them back...right?" he asked hesitantly.

Wiesel's look was one of incredulous derision. "Buy them back?" he scoffed. "You're a riot, kid. Come on, I don't have time for this nonsense. Do you want your papes or not?"

Disconcerted, David pushed his dime forward and took the stack of papers he was handed in return. Walking a few paces away, he pulled Les, who had purchased his own "papes," over to the side and began counting the copies. Les' stack was fine, but when David counted his own, he came up one short. Frowning, he counted again. No, he hadn't been mistaken. There were only nineteen papers there.

David sighed. They hadn't even started selling yet and things were already off to a flying start.

"Sorry, sorry...excuse me," he apologized to a few slightly annoyed newsboys as he shouldered his way back to the window. He caught Wiesel's eye and, trying to sound more confident than he felt, said aloud, "I paid for twenty papers, but you only gave me nineteen."

The affronted Wiesel began muttering accusations, but before David could answer, his nineteen papers were unceremoniously whisked out of his hands. He looked up indignantly, watching as the pilferer quickly counted the stack then proclaimed loudly, "He ain't lyin', Weasel; you've shorted him a pape." Flashing an impish grin, the boy added, "Now, I'm sure it's an honest mistake, seein' how Oscar here don't have enough fingers for countin' all the way to twenty." The newsboys jeered, and the insulted Oscar made as if to lunge forward, but he was held back.

"Here's your paper," Wiesel said tersely, clearly ready to wash his hands of the whole thing. "Now beat it."

David took the proffered copy of _The World_ and was about to retreat when the newsboy who had just helped him tossed a coin onto the counter of the distribution window and called out grandly, "Give him another fifty papes, Weasel!"

David cringed. "Thank you, but I don't _want_ more papes," he said shortly. He wasn't sure what kind of angle this newsboy was trying to work, but he wasn't going to be suckered that easily into being beholden to a stranger. Who knew what might be expected in return? Despite the other boy's earlier aid, David could see the calculating look in his eye, and he knew that there was more to this offer than simply trying to help out a new kid.

The newsboy looked at David like he was crazy. "What are you talkin' about?" he scoffed.

"Look, I appreciate the gesture," David replied stiffly, "but I don't even know you."

The other boy regarded him for a moment before an easy grin split across his face. "Well, pardon my rudeness," he said, a bit mockingly. With a flourish, he stuck out his hand. "The name's Jack - Jack Kelly, leader of the Lower Manhattan newsies."

David found himself unwillingly shaking Jack's calloused palm. "I'm David," he said reluctantly. "And this is my little brother, Les." He motioned to the younger boy, who was staring at their new acquaintance in awe.

"Nice to meet you, kid," Jack winked at Les. "I can tell you's the brains of this operation," he said, gesturing between the two brothers. "Davey here already proved he ain't too smart by turnin' down my generous offer of fifty more papes."

"Well, he _can_ be a bit dense," Les agreed without missing a beat.

David bristled. "All right," he said, "Well, now that we've all reached an agreement on that point, we'll just be on our way." He gave Jack a brusque nod, then grabbed Les' hand and began pulling him in the direction of the street.

"You sure you want to miss out on the chance of a lifetime?" Jack's cocky, confident voice called after them. "I'm offerin' you the opportunity to sell with me, the best of Manhattan's best!"

David turned on his heel, ignoring Les' pleading look and fixing the newsboy with a level stare. "If you're the best," he said cooly, "then why do you need to sell with us?"

"For cryin' out loud, Davey," Jack exclaimed, throwing his hands in the air dramatically. "Are you always this suspicious of folks just tryin' to help you out?"

David folded his arms across his chest. "My question stands." A beat of silence passed, and at first he thought that Jack wasn't going to answer...but he had no such luck.

"Alright," Jack said, sounding a bit more agreeable. "I'll let you in on a little trade secret: papes move faster the younger you look." He cocked his head in Les' direction. "And that face could move a thousand papes a week without breakin' a sweat. So, here's what I'm offerin', Davey: you let me sell with your little brother, and I'll teach you both the tricks of the trade. We'll split our profits seventy-thirty - "

"Fifty-fifty," Les broke in forcefully, giving Jack a look that said he meant business.

Jack stared at the boy, his expression both surprised and pleased. "See, what did I tell ya?" he grinned, ruffling Les' hair. "The brains of the operation." He shook his head, amused. "Alright, since Les here is already shapin' up to be a quick study, I'll give you sixty-forty, but that's my final offer."

Les glanced over his shoulder at David who found himself nodding wearily in agreement. Facing off against the persistent Jack was turning out to be a confounding task, and David had the distinct feeling that fighting him would only be delaying the inevitable. Like it or not, he could see that Jack Kelly had already determined that they would be his selling partners (just as he had, for whatever perplexing reason, determined that David would henceforth be only addressed as Davey). They might as well get on with things; time was wasting, and no one else was offering to teach them the ins and outs of this new profession.

So the reluctant David found himself trailing after Jack and an eager Les with his father's words once again running through his mind:

_Make good choices. Keep your guard up. Look out for Les._

David wondered if he'd already managed to fail all three directives.

He adjusted the weight of the newsboy bag on his shoulder, unused to the ungainly burden and to the awkward swing of it against his leg. As they walked along, Jack called out greetings to the newsboys he saw along the way, bantering like he was some politician on the campaign trail. Most of the other newsies he passed gave Les a nod or a grin, clearly used to the sight of a youngster in training with Jack, but David received his fair share of questioning stares, though no one approached to introduce himself until a boy with a cigar in his mouth sauntered over.

"Hey Jacky," he said, pulling the cigar out of his mouth and greeting the newsie leader. "You got some new friends?"

Jack nodded. "This here is Les," he said, motioning to the younger boy. He jerked his thumb over his shoulder, "And that's his brother, Davey. Davey, Les, this son-of-a-gun is Racetrack, but you can just call him Race."

The boy gave Les a wink. "Please to meet ya, Les," he said. "You gonna sell with Jack today?"

Les nodded eagerly.

"Well, you's gonna be in good hands, then," Race replied, ruffling Les' hair. He turned his attention to David, giving the older boy a mischievous look.

"Heya, Davey," he said cheerfully. Then, to David's horror, he spat in his hand and held it out, clearly in a gesture of affability (though the roguish look never left his eyes). When the shocked David made no move to reciprocate, Race said teasingly, "What's a matter, Dave? You ain't ever shook a fella's hand before?"

"Not like that!" David exclaimed, adding under his breath before he could stop himself, "That's disgusting."

"That's just business," Jack corrected, grinning as he clapped the still-smirking Race on the back. "And it's how us newsies greet each other, too, so you'd better get used to it, Davey."

David gritted his teeth, knowing that he was being egged on but sensing that there was some earnestness behind the newsboys' teasing antics. It was a test of some kind, this repellent custom, and he instinctively knew that his willingness to participate in it or not could directly impact the ease with which he and Les were accepted into this ragtag band of brothers.

So David found himself doing something he never imagined that he would do: spitting in his own palm, shaking hands with Race, and trying not to squirm as he did so. The satisfied look on Jack's face was enough to assure him that he'd done the right thing, and he supposed that there were worse ways of being inducted into a group. This was a new world, after all - the world of the newsies - and if the rules and rituals that governed it were a bit off-putting...well, there was nothing David - _Davey_ \- could do about it.

* * *

After about an hour of selling together, Jack ended up going off with Les, leaving Davey largely to his own devices. He kept his little brother within sight (still a bit wary of their selling partner), but had to admit that Jack knew what he was doing and that Les was getting the hang of things quickly under the older newsie's tutelage.

Davey somehow managed to sell all twenty of his papers that morning (a feat he attributed to a minor miracle), but he didn't feel confident enough to try for anything more ambitious, so when the afternoon edition came out, he once again paid for twenty papers at the distribution center, then walked over to the same corner where he'd been selling that morning.

Thankfully, the afternoon edition moved almost as well as the morning one, and Davey was able to keep up a steady (if infrequent) stream of sales, which made the time pass by quickly.

It was well into the afternoon and he had stopped for a moment to count the remaining papers in his newsboy bag, when a shadow fell across the sidewalk and a familiar voice said, "I wouldn't have guessed you were the headline-hawking type, David." Davey looked up to see Sadie giving him a half smile. "But then," she continued easily, "I suspect there are probably quite a few things I don't know about you."

To his surprise, he actually found himself happy to see her, a familiar face in a day that had been an unsettling whirlwind of strangers and change.

"We wondered where you and Les were when you didn't show up for class," the girl continued, sounding a bit concerned. "Is everything all right?"

"Everything's…" Davey hesitated. He'd been about to brush off Sadie's question but to his surprise found himself confiding in her instead. "Actually, my family's in a bit of a mess right now," he admitted softly. "My dad got injured on the job this week and they laid him off, so Les and I had to find work. That's why we can't come to school anymore." He wasn't sure what had possessed him to disclose so much; after all, he barely knew her...but something about Sadie's open and easy manner invited confidence. In this still-unfamiliar place, she was the closest thing he had to a friend, and with everything that was weighing on Davey's shoulders, he knew that he could use a friend right now.

"I'm so sorry to hear about your father, David," Sadie said quietly. "I'm sure it's been hard on all of you."

Davey smiled grimly. "It _has_ been hard...but we're adjusting." Impulsively, he added, "And...you can call me Davey." At the quizzical look on her face, he amended quickly, "That is, you can...if you want."

"What's the matter - aren't you sure?" Sadie teased gently.

Davey felt himself blushing a little. "Sorry...it's kind of a new nickname for me. But I think I prefer it, actually."

"Fair enough, Davey," Sadie answered with one of her easy smiles. Glancing down at the newspaper in his hands, she reached into her purse and pulled out a penny. "I'll take a paper," she said, handing him the money. "Papa usually favors _The Journal_, but he's always telling me to look at things from a different point of view, so I'll bring him a copy of The _World_ today."

"You don't have to do that," Davey said automatically, finding himself in the humbling position of being forced to accept help for the second time that day. In the case of Jack, it had been a little less humiliating - it was clear to Davey that, for all of the other boy's self-aggrandizing behavior, he actually _did_ want them (well, Les, at least) as selling partners. But in this case, there was no reason for Sadie to be buying a paper from him unless she was doing it purely as an act of charity, and Davey stubbornly maintained that he was no charity case.

Sadie put an end to his internal struggle by gently tugging the paper from his hands, saying lightly, "I just want what I paid for." Swallowing his pride, Davey let it go.

"So," Sadie said, tucking the paper under her arm, "Are you curious to know what you missed at school today?"

Davey tried not to look too eager.

"I'll take those wide eyes as hearty 'yes,'" Sadie laughed. "It's really too bad that we can't switch places - I'm sure you'd be much happier in school than I am, and being a newsboy sounds rather exciting."

"You'd probably be better at it than me," Davey admitted ruefully. "Les is a natural, but I'm no good at selling these headlines."

"It's only your first day," Sadie said consolingly. "Give it some time." Noticing a trickle of passersby headed their way, she added, "I don't want to keep you from any prospective customers, and I've got to get to the tailor's, so I'll be on my way now, but if you still want to hear about the lesson, I can catch you up tonight after dinner. Abby and I usually work on our school assignments in Papa's office - just knock." And with a little wave, she was off before he could answer.

* * *

**A/N:** I apologize to any narrative purists who may be reading this story: I did take some artistic liberties with this chapter, partially to move the plot along a bit quicker, but mostly because I couldn't pass up the opportunity to let Jack and Les get in a little jab at Davey's expense. If you've read my other stories, you also know that Race and Davey's friendship is my favorite dynamic to write, so Race, of course, had to make an appearance and get right down to the business of razzing the squeamish new kid. (Any Race fans out there? (I think there's at least one of you). Even though he's not the main character of this story, you'd better believe I'll write him any chance I get ;)).


	7. Family

**Disclaimer: **This is a non-commercial work of fanfiction. Anything recognizable from _Newsies_ belongs to Disney and not to me.

* * *

Chapter 7: Family

Davey debated all afternoon whether or not to take Sadie up on her offer. As eager as he was to seize the opportunity to keep up with his studies, he really didn't like being indebted to anyone, and he would most certainly be beholden to Sadie if he added this to the small but growing list of favors he felt he owed her for. In the end, however, his scholastically-minded disposition won out, and later that evening, Davey found himself wearily climbing the stairs to the landlord's office on the third floor.

He would have never thought that after selling his last paper he would find himself unexpectedly fleeing from the warden of a juvenile detention center, then turning right around to take in a few numbers of a vaudeville show, all before endeavoring to return to his academic studies at night. But he supposed that it was just a day in the life of a newsie moonlighting as a schoolboy. It was a rather ludicrous situation, and if Davey wasn't already so staggered by the day's events, he probably would have laughed at himself.

Reaching the landing, he hesitated a bit in front of the freshly-painted door of the landlord's office...then knocked.

* * *

Sadie had just situated herself at her father's large desk when a knock sounded on the office door. She got up to open it and was slightly surprised to see her neighbor standing in the doorway with his schoolbook in hand despite the relative lateness of the hour.

"Davey!" She opened the door wide, beckoning him inside. "I wasn't sure if you were coming or not. How was the rest of your first day on the job?"

"Busy," Davey answered, stepping hesitantly into the office. "I'm sorry it took me so long to come over."

"We only just started ourselves," Sadie replied. Lilly had suffered several seizures that evening at dinner, so her sisters had gotten a late start on their assignments. Motioning for Davey to take a seat at the desk, she said, "Papa had to go back to the apartment to help Mama with something, but I'm sure you'll meet him eventually. In the meantime, this is my sister, Abigail." She gestured to the younger girl who was curled up in an armchair in the corner of the office, engrossed in a book. "Abby," Sadie called, catching her sister's attention, "this is Davey Jacobs, our neighbor on the second floor. He's Les' brother."

"Hello," Abby said.

Davey returned the greeting, but before he could say anything more, the girl quickly returned to her book.

"Sorry," Sadie apologized. "She gets rather absorbed in her reading."

"I'm the same way," Davey assured her. He took a seat at the place Sadie indicated, setting his school book down on the desk. "So, is it just the two of you?" he asked.

"Actually, there are four of us." Sadie pulled another chair up to the table, joining him. "Our oldest sister, Judith, lives in Boston with her husband and their two sons. Judith was the responsible one, so now that she's gone, you can imagine how we younger ones comport ourselves in her absence." A little smile tugged at her lips before she continued, "Lilly is the second oldest. She's...a little different than the rest of us. We aren't really sure why, but about a year after she was born, she started having seizures. The doctors weren't able to find a cause or a cure, and she's had them ever since."

Sadie paused, trying to decide how much to elaborate before adding, "Lilly doesn't really leave the house, and needs to have someone with her all the time. She doesn't talk much, and it's difficult to know how much she comprehends...but I'm positive that somewhere inside she understands more than we know. Lilly's the best listener and the sweet one in our family.

"And then there's Abigail, our voracious reader," Sadie continued as her sister looked up from her book upon hearing her name. "Abby's the spunky one, Mama's favorite, and the baby of the family -"

"I am _not_ a baby!" Abby objected, wrinkling her nose in disgust. "I'm nearly ten."

"You'll always be the baby," Sadie declared loftily, "no matter how old you are." Her sister glared at her, but Sadie only gave her a teasing smirk.

Davey seemed to be taking it all in. "So, if Judith's the responsible one, Lilly's the sweet one, and Abby's the spunky one, what does that make you?" he asked, sounding a little curious.

"The third oldest, rather impulsive, and an incorrigible flirt!" Abby cut in loudly before Sadie could reply.

"Abby!" Sadie exclaimed, staring at her sister in shock. "Why would you say that? Do you even know what 'incorrigible' means?"

"You just called me a baby," her sister scowled, not to be deterred. "Fair's fair. And I'm only repeating what Mama told Mrs. Hart yesterday."

"Maybe I should have added 'eavesdropper' to your description," Sadie muttered, slightly vexed. Abby gave her sister a smug look but said nothing, pointedly returning to her book.

Abby's words stung, and Sadie wished that there had been something positive her sister (and mother) could have added to offset a rather unflattering evaluation, but there was nothing she could do about it now. "I suppose I'll have to leave it up to you to determine whether or not my sister's kind assessment of me is true," she said to Davey, trying to keep her tone lighthearted.

"Whether or not it's true...I'm sure it's not the whole story," came his slow but deliberate answer. Sadie glanced at him in surprise and saw that he was regarding her with a thoughtful look on his face, quietly inviting her to vindicate herself if she wanted to.

Unfortunately, when she opened her mouth, what came out instead was a flippant remark. "Are you sure about that, now?" she asked. It would be easier to just laugh off the subject and move on - she actually didn't know how she would have characterized herself to Davey had she'd been given the chance to answer, and the damage was already done.

To her surprise, he didn't let it go. "Well, I'd add 'industrious' to the list, for one," he said. "Anyone who can help her father out with the family business and still have a side job has to be at least a little bit conscientious. And you seem to make friends easily, so there's that." He shrugged. "I'm sure there's more, but I'm not really much of an authority on the subject."

It was the first time Sadie had heard him push back (albeit mildly) on something she'd said, and it gave her pause. With her off-handed remarks and teasing words, she was usually the one rendering him speechless...but somehow, in his reflective, thoughtful way, he'd managed to return the favor. And she found that she had no idea what to say in reply.

After a moment, Davey broke the silence. "Anyway, speaking of subjects…" he cleared his throat a bit awkwardly.

"Oh, of course!" Sadie recovered, opening her school book to the day's lesson and quickly becoming absorbed in trying to explain their schoolmaster's lecture to Davey. It was a bit challenging; she hadn't realized earlier in class that she would be giving an impromptu tutoring session later that day (and thus hadn't bothered to pay particularly close attention), but she struggled gamely through it.

The irony wasn't lost on Sadie; of course, it would be she, the _least_ academically-inclined of all, who would end up instructing possibly the brightest and most bookish student in her class. She could already tell that she was going to have to pay much more careful attention at school if these meetings with Davey were going to become a regular occurrence, and slightly regretted the offer she'd made of helping him keep up with his studies.

But, she was a person of her word, so she wouldn't renege on her proposition. Perhaps she wasn't the best suited for the job, but trying to retain the information taught in class well enough to teach it could be a good challenge for her. And if there was one thing that could be said for Sadie Becker, it was that she rarely backed down from a good challenge.

* * *

Candlelight had always been soothing to Esther Jacobs. There was something about the flickering glow that softened things, muting colors and fading lines in a way that seemed to slow things down, bringing into focus only that which was most salient and crucial while everything else faded to black.

It helped her direct her thoughts, which had been rather scattered as of late. Between caring for her husband and trying to figure out how she was going to run their household on an even more meagre budget than before, it hadn't been easy to find quiet or peace, but now with her entire family finally settled in for the night, a sense of relief stole over her as she sat quietly at the table beside her flickering candle.

David had returned from his tutoring session about an hour ago, slipping quietly into the apartment so as not to wake the already-sleeping Les, and had eagerly devoured the meal Esther had kept warm for him (he didn't eat nearly enough, as far as she was concerned). In between bites, he'd given her a brief summary of his first day as a newsboy.

He'd stuck to the facts of the matter, not once mentioning how he'd felt about any of it until Esther had pressed him, knowing that her older son rarely shared his emotions unless he was prompted to. It was only when she'd gently hinted that perhaps he didn't find life as a newsboy as thrilling as Les had that she'd seen David's face fall. He'd admitted quietly that he didn't think he was cut out for the job and shared his misgivings over the pressure to improve the truth in order to sell headlines.

David had always been a bit of a black-and-white thinker, and it didn't surprise Esther that the anecdotic liberties necessitated by the newsboy profession would jar her older son's more conservative sensibilities. Les, it seemed, had no qualms about employing whatever means necessary to sell his papers, but David was clearly struggling to find some kind of compromise between his moral convictions and his responsibility to feed his family.

It was a burden that should have never been placed upon his shoulders, and Esther found herself regretting that she and her husband had come to expect so much from David from the time he'd been a young boy. Their older son was a quiet and thoughtful child who rarely got into mischief and generally did as he was told, so it had seemed natural to begin depending on him, first for small tasks, then for more important ones after he rose to the occasion time and time again. With Mayer's changing job situation requiring the family to move several times, David had learned to be adaptable, and they had gotten used to his resiliency, perhaps to the point of taking it for granted.

The plan had been to have other children closer to David's age, but Esther had miscarried several times in the years following David's birth, and the pain of those losses had left her devastated and her son without a sibling and playmate. Then, unexpectedly, Les came along, squalling and sickly at first, then later bright and precocious, and the conscientious eight-year-old David had willingly assumed his post as the (occasionally overprotective) guardian of the newest member of the family.

Esther wondered sometimes if there was much left of David between the roles he filled of dependable older son and responsible older brother. She'd seen a brief spark of joy when he'd gone back to school, his inherent love of learning stirring up an exuberance that he rarely displayed. But David's time at school had been cut short, and that spark had died with it. Seeing the conflicted resignation on his face when he'd talked to her about dropping out of school to become a newsboy had been one of the most painful moments of the whole ordeal for Esther, second only to hearing about Mayer's accident.

Under the circumstances, however, there was little she could do about it.

So she settled for wrapping her arms around her son, planting a kiss on his head like she had often done when he'd been a boy, and speaking to him in a few short but sincere sentences, telling him that she was proud of him and that the sacrifices he was making did not go unnoticed. David wasn't usually one to seem comforted much by physical affection (she'd done that mostly for herself), but words rarely failed to have an impact on him, so she chose hers carefully, as she knew he always did. Then, sensing the lateness of the hour and seeing his growing fatigue, she'd sent him off to bed, telling him gently but firmly that it was time he got some sleep.

Off-handedly, before he'd retired for the night, he'd mentioned the trolley strike. It had been news for several weeks, but he'd read more about it in the day's copy of _The World_ that he'd been selling. It was a rather passing remark, and Esther hadn't pressed him to elaborate, not wanting to delay his rest, but she'd sensed that underneath his calm exterior, David's mind was feverishly working at something. She'd hoped that he'd be able to put his thoughts aside for a few hours so that he could get some sleep.

Thankfully, the long day took its toll, and David was soon sound asleep beside his brother, leaving Esther alone with her thoughts and her flickering candle.

The gentle light was soothing, but her heart was heavy, and she found herself driven to pray as she often did when she was regretting the past, fearing the future, and struggling with the things she could not change in the present.

She prayed that her husband's leg would heal quickly and that he would be back to work soon. She prayed that Les would be safe out on the streets and that he would have wisdom in knowing how to sell his papers without resorting to falsehood. She prayed for herself, that she would be granted the fortitude necessary to hold the family together during this trying season.

But most of all, she prayed for David, that he wouldn't break under the strain of the unexpected responsibility he'd had to shoulder for all of them, and that somehow he would find relief from the burden caused by his new profession. It seemed counterintuitive to pray for an abatement of the very livelihood that ensured her family's survival, but something compelled Esther to do it, and as she did, she was filled with an inexplicable sense of peace. Perhaps deliverance for David would take on an unexpected form...but in one way or another, she knew that it would come.

And when it did, she hoped that he would somehow be able to find his joy again.

* * *

**A/N: **Well, there you have it, folks: just a few more hours in the life of Davey Jacobs. Writing this story has made me realize how compressed the timeline of the musical is - there's a lot that happens in a relatively short span, and when you try to add in missing scenes and additional characters, well, you end up needing several chapters to even _get_ to the strike. Thanks for hanging in there with this despite its ponderous pace! :)


	8. Making a Judgment

**Disclaimer: **This is a non-commercial work of fanfiction. Anything recognizable from _Newsies_ belongs to Disney and not to me.

* * *

Chapter 8: Making a Judgment

Katherine had to admit that the sketch was a rather good likeness. That impossible boy had captured the curve of her cheek, the tilt of her nose, even her slightly troubled gaze perfectly (_he should have_, she thought irritably, _seeing that he was the cause of it_).

Still, she wasn't sure what to do with the drawing he'd left behind. It felt overly-sentimental to keep it, but there was so much skill apparent in even the hastily-executed strokes that it seemed almost offensive to throw it away (it was, after all, a beautiful sketch _and_ a rather good likeness - not that she was at all being vain about it).

In the end, she settled for tucking it into her notepad under her scribblings, which had started out orderly but had become regretfully more chaotic and difficult to read once the boy had barged into her private box at the theater where she'd been observing the show for the review she'd been tasked with writing for _The Sun_. Katherine had been instantly annoyed by the interruption, not at all interested in the boy's flirtatious attention (she received enough of that at the office and certainly didn't need more of it in the field).

But she had to admit that he was quick-witted, and that their banter had been...an unexpected and interesting diversion. He'd asked curiously about her work, hadn't balked when she'd insulted him, and had declared her a "smart girl" (whether it was in reference to her profession or to her cutting retort was irrelevant; "smart" was not something she was used to hearing from an admirer in reference to herself, though she certainly thought it quite a fitting descriptor).

It didn't hurt that he'd noticed her beauty as well. Katherine had been called all manner of lovely things on numerous occasions, both by those with sincere intentions and those without, so the boy's complimentary words hadn't made much of an impression on her. His drawing, however, was another story. In a few lines of charcoal pencil on paper, he'd shown her what he saw when he'd looked at her...and it had been quite breathtaking.

So when he'd cockily taken his leave with a smirk and a flourish, tossing the sketch down onto the chair beside Katherine, she'd almost been a little sad to see him go, not simply because she'd enjoyed his attention, but because there was something about him that intrigued her.

He was obviously not well-off; both his attire and his manner of speaking had made that clear, yet his artistry exuded a fascinating tension between the refined and the raw. She wasn't sure where the former came from, but it was unmistakably there. (If Wilde was correct, then here perhaps was a contradiction).

Was the boy a student, selling papers to work his way through art school? Or merely a newsie with a hidden talent that he only indulged in during the short snatches of time between his never-ending work of hawking headlines? Did he have parents who encouraged his skill, or was he an orphan, making his way on his own? Was he even aware of the gift he possessed and of where it could take him, or was he ignorant of the fact that what he had was something extraordinary? His profession was a humble one to say the least, but his personality was somehow larger than life; did he know that he possessed some kind of unmistakable magnetism that even his worn-out clothes and dirty face couldn't hide?

The questions fascinated Katherine, tickling and taunting by turns until she finally gave an exasperated sigh of resignation, admitting to herself that her curiosity had been piqued.

This boy was a story she wanted to follow. And he'd left behind sufficient clues for that to be easy enough.

His name was Jack Kelly. He worked for _The World_.

She'd tracked people down on less information than that. He'd be no different.

Having settled this in her mind, Katherine tucked her notebook under her arm, careful not to wrinkle the sketch, then quickly left the now-empty theater, heading for her office at _The Sun_. She had an article to write, and once that was done, she had a certain newsboy to find.

(She most certainly wasn't intrigued by his handsome face or boyish charm. She was only a reporter sniffing out a story).

* * *

"Lights out in five!" Jack barked over the commotion of the lodging house.

"Come on, fellas - you heard Jack! Get movin'," Race chided, swatting at Albert with a towel as the ginger-haired newsie thumbed his nose at him.

It was past midnight, and the newsies should have gone to bed hours ago, but Race and Sniper had been embroiled in a particularly heated card game, and Jack and the other boys had become so engrossed in it that they'd lost track of the time. There would certainly be a few sleepy newsies at the distribution center come daybreak, and Jack made a mental note to make his wakeup call a bit earlier, knowing that some of the boys would have a particularly difficult time rousing themselves after a short night's sleep.

Once all of the newsies had settled in for the night and the last talker (Albert, again) had been shushed, Jack took one final look around the room, giving the still-standing Race a quick nod before extinguishing the lights. He turned around and started down the stairs to the ground floor, not even bothering to listen for the gambler's light footsteps as he left the bunkroom and followed.

They didn't speak until they'd stepped outside of the lodging house and into the evening air which by this time had turned pleasantly cool.

"So, what'd ya think of our newest additions?" Jack asked Race, as the other boy leaned casually back against the wall and struck a match.

"The kid's a quick study," Race replied, lighting his cigar. "From what I've seen, he's gonna be up to speed in no time." He paused to stamp out the match, then added, "Not so sure about his brother, though."

Jack settled himself on a barrel nearby. "You think he ain't got what it takes?" he queried.

Race's answer surprised him. "I think that's gonna depend on you, Jacky."

"What do you mean?" Jack asked, curious.

"I mean if you try and make Davey sell papes the way the rest of us do, he ain't ever gonna be any good at it," Race elaborated.

"That's for sure," Jack let out a little snort, remembering Davey's scruples over improving the truth.

"But," Race continued, gesturing with his cigar, "I think if you let him figure out his own way of sellin'...he might find an angle that the rest of us ain't got. Most folks get suckered into a sale when we's makin' up some kind of crazy story, but then there's those types that actually want the real news without all of the exaggeratin' we's always doin.' Those folks is the kind that'll buy a pape from a kid like Davey." Race paused, then added, "He's got the look, ya know?"

Jack agreed. While he'd immediately pegged Les as the more marketable of the two brothers (and certainly, the kid was a charmer), he had noticed from the start that there was something remarkable about Davey, though he hadn't been able to pin down exactly what it was.

He'd actually let Davey sell on his own for most of the day on purpose, wanting to see what he was capable of accomplishing when left to his own devices. And to his surprise, Davey had somehow managed to sell nearly all of his papers by evening. From what Jack had seen, his selling technique was awkward and forced to say the least, but somehow people had still purchased from him, so maybe Race was on to something. The gambler was unpredictable, sarcastic, and occasionally moody, but Jack had come to trust his uncanny insight, which was rarely wrong.

They were a good team, Jack and Race, when it came to assessing people. Jack drew his conclusions intuitively, preferring to trust his gut. He only needed a few interactions with a person to get a sense of them, and his natural charisma drew people out before they even know what they were divulging.

Race, on the other hand, looked for tells. He was always watching people, and the hours he'd spent reading faces at the card table meant that he'd become an expert at catching the quick and fleeting things that could often tell you more about a person's motives than their words. Very little escaped the gambler's keen eye, and Jack had relied on it time and time again.

They had made it a practice to compare notes any time a new newsie joined their ranks, careful of whom they allowed into their inner circle. If their evaluations matched and were positive, the newcomer was promptly welcomed into the brotherhood. If one or the other had misgivings, both would keep a watchful eye on the newsie in question until further assessment could be made. On the rare occasion that the pair came up with matching concerns or suspicions of ill-intent, measures were taken to ensure that the outsider was kept from infiltrating the ranks of the lodging house. It was, perhaps, a bit of a drastic response, but they'd learned the hard way that you couldn't trust everyone, and that a careless oversight could, in the worst of cases, prove disastrous.

Jack shook his head, pushing away memories he wished he could forget.

"So, sellin' potential aside, you think they's trustworthy?" Race asked, bringing him back to the present.

Jack laughed, thankful to have been pulled away from his brooding thoughts. "Trustworthy?" he echoed. "When one of 'em's nine years old and the other can't lie to save his life?"

"Careful, Jacky," Race warned with a grin. "Ain't ever a good idea to underestimate a nine-year-old."

"Yeah, yeah," Jack chuckled, swatting the other newsie with his cap.

"So, we's in agreement, then?" Race asked. "They's in?" Jack nodded, readjusting his cap on his head. There hadn't been much to deliberate on this time, but he felt better having come to the same conclusion as Race.

"Good." Race snuffed out his cigar and straightened up. He glanced at the moon, as if pondering the lateness of the hour and debating about something, then, seeming to make up his mind, took two steps towards the lodging house door. "You sleepin' on the roof tonight, Jacky?" he called over his shoulder.

"Yeah," Jack answered. "Night, Racetrack." He walked around to the back of the lodging house, then pulled himself up onto the fire escape that led to the rooftop.

Crutchie was already there, stretched out in his usual spot, and Jack quietly stepped off of the fire escape, cringing as it creaked a little. He took several tentative steps towards the corner of the rooftop where he typically slept, trying to be as silent as possible as he passed the other newsie's sleeping form.

"What'd Race think?" Crutchie asked, his voice drowsy but curious. Jack turned, guilty for having woken up his friend.

"Gave his approval," he answered quickly. "Go back to sleep, Crutchie."

The other boy nodded in satisfaction. "I got a good feelin' about them, Jack," he murmured. "Goodnight."

"Night, Crutchie."

Jack ambled over to his corner of the rooftop, pausing a moment to take in the sleeping city before removing his cap and outer shirt and setting them in their usual spots. He laid down, hands behind his head, and stared up at the night sky, watching the scattering of stars that gleamed and glittered high above him.

It had been an eventful twenty-four hours.

Jack was thankful for many things: thankful that it had been a productive day of selling, thankful that the weather had been mild, thankful that Snyder had been easy enough to outrun (this time) and that Ms. Medda had been at the theater, thankful that Race had won his card game and had been in a talkative mood, thankful that they had been in agreement about Davey and Les, thankful that the newsies in question seemed to be honest enough (though Les was shaping up to be a first-rate liar when it came to selling headlines)...

...and thankful that he'd gotten a second chance to run into that bewitching, feisty reporter.

Jack rolled over on his side, his hand reaching for the little sketchpad he always had on his person and at night left beside his makeshift bed (which was really just a few tattered blankets thrown together). Flipping to the most recent sketch which he'd rendered only the day before, he examined it with a scrutinizing eye.

The drawing he'd done at the theater had been much better, but there was something about this very first sketch that was special. Maybe it was because he'd only seen her for a few fleeting seconds at that point before she'd breezed off, yet somehow he'd still managed to capture a tiny bit of her in the hasty portrait he'd sketched later that afternoon when the papes hadn't been moving and he'd had some time to himself.

With a small smile, Jack tucked the sketchpad carefully away, then turned over on his back again, staring at the stars.

He couldn't get her out of his mind.

Who was she? He'd gotten a little closer to figuring that out - he now knew that she was a working girl (and liked her the better for it), and that she wrote for _The New York Sun_. He'd tried again to flirt with her, thinking that perhaps in the absence of her gentleman friend she'd be a bit more open, but she'd snubbed Jack as mercilessly and persistently as she had before, and oddly enough, he liked her the better for that as well. She was beautiful, smart, witty, self-assured...and not the least bit interested in him.

It was a heady combination.

Jack had known other girls before, but never had one captured his attention like this. He wasn't sure exactly what the difference was (and honestly, did it even matter?); he only _felt_ that she was something special. It couldn't be explained.

One thing he was sure of: he would see her again. If fate could bring them both to Ms. Medda's theater for a second meeting under the most unusual circumstances, it would only be a matter of time before their paths crossed again. And when they did, Jack would certainly be ready.

Feeling more hopeful and content than he'd felt in awhile, Jack closed his eyes, letting the weariness of a long day and the lateness of the hour settle on him like a blanket. Soon his thoughts were drifting off towards sleep, bound for plains of rolling green grass and a clay-walled city that rested under a blindingly brilliant blue sky.

* * *

**A/N: **Am I the only person that thought it was strange that in the play, Jack waited until Davey was selling his _second-to-last paper_ to correct his selling technique ("Sing them to sleep, why don'tcha?") if they were supposedly selling together all day? Anyway, my theory for this is that Jack actually let Davey sell on his own for the reasons mentioned in this chapter, and only bothered to correct him when he returned much later to see how the new kid was getting along.

In Katherine's section, the mention of (Oscar) Wilde is in reference to an essay he wrote in 1889 called "The Decay of Lying," which expressed Wilde's opinion that "Life imitates Art far more than Art imitates Life." Katherine draws a somewhat oblique and indirect connection to this thought as she's considering Jack's artistic abilities, noting that his artistic style is a reflection of his personality (art imitating life as opposed to the opposite). Sorry. This is what you get when you have a former AP Art History/AP English student as your author. :)

Anyway, I'd love to hear your thoughts on this chapter if you're willing to share! Your feedback truly does keep me going. Thanks for reading, and I promise we'll get to the strike soon!


	9. Taking on The World

**Disclaimer: **This is a non-commercial work of fanfiction. Anything recognizable from _Newsies_ belongs to Disney and not to me.

* * *

Chapter 9: Taking on the World

Davey awoke with an unusually clear head and without the slight irritability that typically found him after a short night of rest. Pushing himself into a sitting position, he looked over and was surprised to see that Les, habitually an early riser, was still asleep in the bed beside him. Davey rose gingerly so as not to wake his brother, then quietly got dressed and cleaned up for the day. All was silent from his parents' room, so he decided he'd get out of the apartment for a bit so that he wouldn't disturb anyone.

Leaving a note on the kitchen table and grabbing a few biscuits from the bread box (his mother was always complaining that he didn't eat enough), Davey left the apartment and made his way downstairs to the street, just as the sun was beginning to rise for another day.

He set a brisk pace, munching on the biscuits as he walked and letting his long strides carry him towards nowhere in particular. His thoughts were already going a mile a minute as if he'd woken up from an especially vivid dream to find that it wasn't a dream after all.

It was the trolley strike that consumed his attention. He'd mentioned it to his mother before retiring the evening before, had fallen asleep with it on his mind, and now found it again the locus of his thoughts as he made his way through the city streets. The headline he'd been hawking yesterday hadn't been particularly riveting, but it was the idea behind it that had captured him: the disadvantaged trolley workers, though insignificant on their own, were a force to be reckoned with when standing hundreds strong, and they had made their voices heard, taking a stand for better wages and working conditions so effectively that the entire city was forced to sit up and take notice...not just for a fleeting moment, but for _weeks_.

Davey shook his head, still a little amazed at the thought. Who would have guessed that that kind of power rested in the hands of the faceless laborers who toiled thanklessly for their privileged bosses?

But the union aspect - now, that was the key. It was like the wild dogs he'd read about one time in an animal encyclopedia: small and scrappy beasts, they were able to take down prey far larger than themselves by working together as a pack to surround and harass their target before they eventually wore it down, weakening it sufficiently to deliver the killing blow. It was the strength in numbers principle played out.

It was what his father had lacked when the accident had befallen him.

Davey massaged the back of his neck, trying to reign in his restless thoughts. There was nothing to be gained from wishing for what could have been. The accident had occurred, the layoff had followed, and here they were now with nowhere to go but forward.

Still, the fascinating thought refused to leave his mind.

Davey walked. He walked, and walked, maybe for a mile, maybe two. He walked until the sun had risen in the sky and the streets were beginning to buzz with activity. He didn't stop walking until he'd fully circled back to the tenement, climbed the stairs to the apartment on the second floor, and pushed the door open just in time to see Les sitting up in bed and rubbing his eyes sleepily. It was only then that Davey finally ceased his restless movement.

But his thoughts continued to rush and tumble on.

He and Les ended up leaving late for the distribution center. Their mother needed help moving their father into the main room of the apartment so that he could sit up and enjoy a bit of fresh air from the only window in their living space, and the transfer had been a bit trickier than they'd expected. Once it had been done and their father was comfortably settled, Davey hurried Les out of the tenement and down the street, sorely tempted to order his little brother to climb onto his back so that he could carry him instead of having to slow his pace for the smaller boy's shorter strides. But he knew that Les would have balked at being treated like "a little kid," and Davey was too wrapped up in his thoughts at the moment to bother arguing.

A kind of restless energy had gripped him, and he found himself eager to get to the distribution center. He wasn't really sure where this sense of impatient expectation had come from. Maybe it was the combined effect of his mother's encouraging words from the night before and the unusually sound sleep he had enjoyed, or maybe it was something else entirely, but the feeling of anticipation had been growing inside him ever since he'd woken up that morning, and with it came an uncharacteristic sense of excitement that he'd only felt a few times before in his life. He felt ready to face whatever challenges the day had in store, ready to surmount any obstacle that came his way, and ready to think his way out of any problem that surfaced (or at least to try for thirty papers this morning instead of the twenty he'd gone with yesterday).

He felt ready to take on the world.

* * *

"Sadie, something's burning!" Abby yelled.

Sadie, who had been chatting with her father, quickly raced into the kitchen. A faintly scorched odor hung in the air, and she quickly grabbed a pair of kitchen mitts and opened the oven door, wrinkling her nose as the strong smell of burnt chocolate hit her full in the face.

"You really should just stick to soup, Sadie," Abby remarked from her seat at the kitchen table where she had been reading. "It's the only thing you make that's any good and doesn't end up being burnt to a crisp."

Sadie placed the tray of ruined brownies on the stovetop, grimacing at the blackened mess. "The Sears catalog said this was an easy recipe," she muttered.

"I don't think the catalog's to blame for this," Abby jabbed. She gave her sister a curious look. "Why are you even trying to bake this early in the morning?"

"It's Margaret's birthday," Sadie answered as she scraped at the pan with a turner, resigned to the fact that this batch of brownies was headed directly to the garbage bin. "I wanted to make something special to share with everyone at lunch today." There wouldn't be enough time before school for another attempt, so she'd just have to make it up to Megs on another occasion, perhaps with a box of candies from the confectionery, or something that didn't involve quite so much...baking.

Sighing, Sadie dumped the burnt brownies into the garbage bin and put the pan into the sink to soak. "Abby, you'll have to go along with Margaret to school this morning if you don't want to be late," she said. "I need to finish cleaning up the kitchen; you know how Mama hates it when things get left half-done, and I already know that this pan is going to give me a difficult time."

"Not as difficult a time as Mr. Crowell will give you when you show up tardy for class," Abby reminded her, closing her book and reaching for her slate and lunch pail. "Wouldn't you rather risk Mama's displeasure than our schoolmaster's?"

"I think Sadie is doing the right thing by finishing what she started," their father said, poking his head into the kitchen. He grimaced a bit at the burnt smell, but didn't remark on it. "Abby, why don't you go along with Margaret to school?" he suggested. "I'll help Sadie clean up here, and she'll be along in a jiffy." Abby nodded, bidding her father farewell, then left the apartment to join Margaret at their usual meeting spot.

"Hand me a wet rag, will you, Sadie?" Philip asked. "I'll tackle the stove while you get to work on that pan."

"Papa, you really don't have to do that," Sadie protested. "I can take care of it."

"I know, Sadie," he answered. "But your schooling is important, and I don't want you to be any later to class than you need to be." His daughter reluctantly handed him the rag, and he added, "besides, don't you have a classmate who's depending on you to recap the lesson for him tonight?"

Sadie sighed. Yes, there was that.

"I know that school isn't your cup of tea, Sadie," her father said gently. "But an education is a luxury, and it's going to open doors for you in the future. I don't want you to take that for granted."

"Yes, Papa," Sadie acquiesced. "I'm trying..."

"I know you are." Philip gave her shoulder a reassuring squeeze. "And I'm proud of you for offering to help your classmate who can't be at school. It isn't easy to learn something new and then have to turn around and teach it to someone else."

"No, it isn't," Sadie agreed with a laugh, thinking of her struggles the night before. "And I'm certainly quite ill-equipped for the job."

"You have a good heart, Sadie," Philip reassured her. "That's the most important thing." He smiled at his daughter, then began rolling up his shirt sleeves. "Now," he said briskly, "let's get this kitchen cleaned up so we can get you along to school."

* * *

If Davey had thought that his first day of being a newsboy was eventful, the second one proved to be even more astonishing.

"They's raised the price of papes overnight!" exclaimed a redheaded newsboy, his voice alarmed and incredulous. "Ten cents more per hundred!"

The other newsies began clamoring in shocked disbelief as Davey stared at the elevated blackboard proclaiming: "New Newsie Price: Sixty Cents Per Hundred." Apparently, this headline was astounding news - the increase in price had the boys around him nearly in a frenzy of angry indignation.

As the agitated newsies continued to talk frantically amongst themselves, Davey slowly began to get a picture of what this increase in price meant. It wasn't just indignant outrage he was hearing in the voices of the boys around him - it was fear. Real and outright fear. The newsboys were hard-pressed as it was to eke out a living, but this increase presented a possibly insurmountable obstacle to their survival. The fact that the newspaper owners could raise the price of papers seemingly on a greedy whim incited a despair that bled into the voice of every single newsie who feared the very real consequences of this decision. And Davey found himself caught up in the familiar feeling of desperate frustration as the anger he'd kept so well-controlled over the past few days suddenly flared to life.

_This_ was the same cold-hearted avarice that had been at play when his father was laid off. _This_ was the same selfish work of men who saw their employees as nothing more than tools to be used until they were no longer useful. _This_ was the same merciless, unfeeling disregard for humanity that put the profits of the powerful above the survival of the poor.

Davey's hands clenched involuntarily as his anger grew. _This_ was the same vile form of injustice that had devastated his family only days ago...and he hated it.

His heart was pounding. Was the restless anticipation he'd felt all morning a harbinger of this surprising and unfortunate development? His thoughts began racing again as the newsies' anxious chatter continued to swirl around him.

"Hey, what are you bummers sulkin' around for?" Jack demanded, suddenly sauntering onto the scene.

The newsboys all began clamoring at once, eager to apprise their leader of the situation. Jack listened, seemingly unconcerned. "Calm down," he said assuringly as the circulation bell sounded. "They's gotta be playin' with us.'"

Ambling up to the window which had just been opened, Jack declared loudly, "Good one, Weasel! You really got the fellas nervous!" He set fifty cents down on the counter. "I'll take a hundred like usual."

Wiesel gave Jack a smug look. "Didn't you read the headline, Kelly?" he asked, pointing to the blackboard. "A hundred papes will cost you sixty."

Davey held his breath.

Jack scowled, his previously affable expression darkening almost instantly. "I ain't payin' that price," he growled at Wiesel.

Wiesel shrugged indifferently. "Then take a hike."

"You bet!" Jack snapped. "Me and the fellas will head on over to _The Journal_." He motioned to the rest of the newsies, who shouted their agreement and eagerly fell in behind their leader.

Davey didn't move. It couldn't be that easy...could it?

His suspicions were confirmed when a breathless newsie ran up to Jack, informing him that _The Journal_ had raised their prices, too.

"You'll find the prices raised all over town," came Wiesel's satisfied voice from the window. He smirked at the newsie leader, clearly pleased to have the upper hand for once. "So it's your move, Kelly," he shrugged. "Step up and buy your papes...or beat it. If you're not purchasing, you're trespassing."

Jack turned away without answering, motioning for the newsies to gather some distance away from the circulation window where Wiesel couldn't overhear. Davey joined them, hovering a bit at the edge of the group as Les jostled in, trying to get as close to Jack as possible. Then the deliberating began.

"They can't just raise the prices like that, can they?"

_They can_, Davey thought, wishing that it wasn't true.

"They's holdin' all the cards here! We's completely sunk!"

"How're we gonna make ends meet at them prices?"

"Ain't we got no rights?"

"Come on, fellas," Crutchie, one of the few newsies Davey had met briefly the day before, sounded unnerved as he added, "Let's just get our papes while we still can, or we's all gonna be sleepin' on the streets!"

It was probably the wisest course of action, Davey agreed. But still, there was something galling about giving in, going along with what the newspaper owners were bullying them into. And then, of course, there was the additional problem of the ten cent increase...

"Hey, hey, hey! Hold on!" Jack broke in, halting the deliberations. "We ain't payin' no new price!" Once he'd gotten all of the newsies' attention, he motioned them closer. "Alright, here's the deal," he said fiercely. "If we don't sell papes, no one else sells papes, either." His gaze swept around the group, looking each one of the newsies in the eye. "You got that? We ain't budgin' until Pulitzer puts the price back where it was before."

_You mean like a strike?_ Davey thought.

"Yeah, you heard Davey!" Jack declared. "We's on strike!"

Davey's mind went blank. He hadn't said that last part out loud, had he? "Wait, wait, hold on!" he protested frantically. "I didn't say - "

"We'll shut down _The World_ just like them trolley workers shut down the trolleys!" Jack continued, over Davey's panicked objections.

"We's gonna be in for a soakin' from the cops if we do!" one newsie blurted out, looking nervous. "Half them strikers got their heads busted for their trouble!"

Jack waved off his concern. "The cops won't bother comin' after us...right, Davey?"

How had he suddenly become the authority here? The situation was unraveling fast, too fast for Davey's liking, and his natural instinct to choose the predictable and safe course of action was grappling with the burning anger inside of him that said that acquiescence in this case would be wrong, so very wrong.

He had a responsibility to sell papers and feed his family. But he also had a responsibility to fight for the justice that had been denied his father. So which responsibility had to take precedence when they came into conflict with one another? Suddenly, things weren't so simple anymore, and Davey found himself trapped in a confounding dilemma, very much like he had on the day before when Jack had advised him to "improve the truth."

Davey's father had taught him not to lie, so he hadn't - but he'd also told Davey that he needed to be the breadwinner of the family, which meant that Davey needed to sell papers. How could he do that if he wasn't willing to exaggerate the headlines to make more sales? It had seemed like a big problem at the time, but the stakes were even higher in the situation he was confronting this morning: if he didn't sell papers, his family would go hungry, but if he did sell papers, giving in to the greed of the newspaper owners, he would be perpetuating the very same systematic injustice which had landed them all in this mess in the first place.

Neither course of action was straightforward or appealing. But, after agonizing for a moment, Davey's cautious instinct won out, and familial obligation tenuously gained the upper hand.

"How should I know?" he demanded, turning away from Jack and grabbing Les' hand to pull him towards the circulation window. He couldn't get roped into a strike right now, not when other people were depending on him. "I'm here to feed my family, not to go on strike!"

"Oh, yeah, forgot about that," Jack scoffed sarcastically. "I guess the rest of us here is just messin' around for kicks. We ain't worried about goin' hungry or anything like that, no way."

Davey winced, involuntarily stopping in his tracks. There really was nothing he could say to that.

"Look," Jack said, coming around to stand in front of Davey, "Just because we's a bunch of penniless kids don't give _no one_ the right to treat us like we's _nothin'_!"

"I know," Davey said, his eyes meeting Jack's. This wasn't an easy decision for him, and he hadn't meant to sound like he was callously deserting the newsies, leaving them to their fate. "I know…" he repeated softly, hoping that Jack could hear the conflict in his voice. "But...we can't just go on strike like that. We're a bunch of kids. We don't have a union to protect us like the trolley workers did when they shut down the trolleys." That really wasn't the crux of the matter - at least not where Davey was concerned - but perhaps it would deter Jack from pursuing this reckless course of action and from hounding Davey in the process. The decision was hard enough as it was without the newsie leader adding further doubts to Davey's already-burdened conscience.

Jack folded his arms across his chest. "Well, what if we make ourselves a union?" he asked.

Davey frowned at this confounding use of logic. "Jack, just because you say...I mean, you can't…" he floundered. "You have to put a lot of things in place before you can call yourself a union, all right?" he declared finally, trying to sound as severe as possible.

"Like what?" Jack questioned.

"Like membership, for example."

"Well, what do you call these bummers?" Jack asked, gesturing to the newsies. A few of them waved cheerfully at Davey.

"How about officers?" he persisted.

"Jack for president!" came the shout as several boys in the group applauded enthusiastically and Jack took a modest bow.

"What about a statement of purpose?" Davey asked, desperately throwing out whatever objections he could think of to convince the irrepressible Jack that this really wasn't as easy as he was making it sound.

"What's a statement of purpose?" Race asked, curiously breaking into the exchange.

"It's your reason for forming the union," Davey replied. "You have to have some kind of goal you're banding together to achieve."

"We's unionizing for fair treatment and fair prices," Jack stated simply. "Ain't a newsie here who don't need that."

Davey fell silent. He was suddenly tired - tired of being asked a barrage of questions, tired of being forced into hasty decisions, tired of having to choose between two equally unappealing courses of action - tired of Jack's relentless persistence. It was the same feeling that had come over him the day before when Jack was trying to convince Davey to become selling partners: the realization that he was being methodically worn down, backed into a corner, and would inevitably be disarmed.

"Hey," Jack said softly when Davey didn't answer. "I bet if your father had a union, you and your brother wouldn't need to be out here sellin' papes right now...yeah?"

_And there was the knockout punch._

"Yeah," Davey responded. "We wouldn't." His eyes met Jack's in defeated resignation, expecting to see the other boy's confident, gloating smirk, but to his surprise, there was something unexpected in Jack's face: an unmistakable look of appeal, as if for some reason he needed Davey to get behind this crazy scheme that was unfolding faster than either of them was comfortable with.

It didn't make sense, Davey thought to himself. Why would the charismatic, swaggering Jack Kelly need the approval of a newcomer who had practically no experience selling papers, let alone organizing a strike? The realization that Jack wanted (needed?) his support was oddly empowering. But before Davey could ponder it further, the look was gone, and Jack was once again back to his cocksure self.

"So," he said, addressing the rest of the newsies, "our union is hereby formed for protection against unfair treatment by the likes of Pulitzer and his kind. Union'd we stand!" He paused dramatically, then added, "Hey, that ain't a bad start - someone put that in our statement of purpose!"

"I've got a pencil!" Les offered helpfully.

"Then you's gonna be our Secretary of State!" Jack declared, patting the younger boy on the back.

"The membership has to vote before you can officially strike," Davey broke in, trying to bring them back to business.

Jack looked a bit exasperated at Davey's insistence on protocol, but he agreed. "All right, we'll vote then." He looked over the crowd of newsies. "What do you say, fellas?" he called out. "It's up to you: do we roll over and let Pulitzer treat us like we's nothin'? Or do we fight back and _strike_?"

"Strike!" came the unanimous cheer.

"Done - what's next?" Jack asked briskly, the formalities having been dispensed with.

"Well, shouldn't we make sure someone in charge knows we's goin' on strike?" Crutchie proposed.

Jack nodded his approval at the suggestion. "What do you say, Davey?" he asked. "Who tells Pulitzer, huh?"

"I don't know!" Davey exclaimed, caught off guard at once more being looked to for the answers. He wasn't any less conflicted about this road they were heading down, but oddly enough, a growing sense of excitement was beginning to override his fear. Though the worry of how he was going to make ends meet for his family continued to hum in the back of Davey's mind, it was relieving to unleash the anger that had been building inside of him, to let it come to the forefront and to channel it into something constructive rather than letting it consume him in helpless frustration.

If they did take their demands to Pulitzer, would he listen? Could they appeal to the man's benevolence, convince him to see reason, and negotiate a return to the original newspaper prices? If they succeeded, then everything would go back to normal, and Davey could get back to the business of selling papers to feed his family. And if there was anyone who had a chance of convincing Pulitzer, it was Jack. (Jack, Davey admitted ruefully, could talk you into anything and make you believe anything before you even knew what he was doing). The newsie leader, then, should naturally be the one to talk to Pulizter.

Davey felt a faint flicker of hope. Catching Jack's eye, he answered, "I guess that would be you, the president of the union."

"Or even better, _us_," Jack grinned. "We'll tell the old man together." He glanced at Davey. "So...what do we say?"

"Well…" Davey took a deep breath. There was no turning back now. "The newspaper owners need to treat us fairly as their employees."

"Pulitzer and Hearst have gotta respect our rights!" Jack hollered, his strong voice carrying through the crowd.

"Yeah!" yelled the newsies.

"They can't just decide to raise their prices without considering the impact on their workers!" Davey added, feeling the anger grow behind his words and not bothering to reign it in.

"That's right!" Jack agreed. "Newsies sell the papes, so newsies get a say!"

"Yeah!" came another resounding cheer.

Davey looked around at the crowd of newsboys, taking in their restless energy and the fervency on their faces as they hung on every word. They were a zealous army ready to be unleashed, set to march into battle against foes more powerful and cunning but without right on their side. To be in the middle of it was exhilarating and terrifying all at once.

Had the feeling of impatient, eager anticipation this morning been to prepare him, to galvanize him for this moment? Davey wondered. He didn't know; he would probably never know - but he would ride this wave of courage for as long as he could.

"We've got a union!" he yelled.

* * *

Even with her father's help, it took some time to restore the kitchen to order, and Sadie found herself hurrying along to school rather tardily, hoping that her schoolmaster would be in a forgiving mood that morning (it wasn't likely, but she could hope). She knew that she would deserve whatever consequence was handed down to her, and she'd done her share of copying sentences and cleaning blackboard erasers, but she really didn't want to forfeit her lunch recess on Margaret's birthday, so she fervently hoped that her punishment would not take on that form.

Lost in her thoughts, she was hastening past the distribution center of _The New York World_, when a familiar voice rang out, immediately arresting her attention.

"They need to understand that they do not control us. We have rights, and we will use them!"

Sadie stopped abruptly, her eyes searching for the owner of that voice even as her mind stumbled in confusion. _It couldn't be…_

But there he was, standing tall above a crowd of newsboys with an authority in his voice and a fiery look in his eyes that she had never seen before and certainly never would have imagined he possessed. As he continued to address the company in front of him, Sadie blinked, still not sure of what she was seeing.

_Davey Jacobs, what in the world…?_

"We're a union now," he was declaring emphatically, "the newsboy union, and we are not backing down until our voice is heard!"

The newsies roared their approval, cheering and shouting as they moved as one, stomping off en masse towards the offices of The _New York World_ and leaving the distribution center quiet and deserted.

Sadie stood there a moment longer, still bewildered at what had just taken place. Clearly, some kind of protest was brewing, and reserved, cautious Davey Jacobs was right in the middle of it.

Not just right in the middle of it - _catalyzing_ it.

She remembered remarking only the day before that she was sure there were quite a few things she didn't know about him. But what she hadn't realized was just how true that statement really was.

* * *

**A/N:** The timeline of the strike is understandably ambiguous in the musical; it "feels" like it's only a few days, but in reality, the strike lasted for around two weeks, so this story's pacing will follow that two-week stretch of time. (It gives me more chances to cram in as many of my outlandish headcanons and missing scenes as possible, so I hope you don't mind ;)). Thanks for reading!


	10. Revenge and Epiphany

**Disclaimer: **This is a non-commercial work of fanfiction. Anything recognizable from _Newsies_ belongs to Disney and not to me.

* * *

Chapter 10: Revenge and Epiphany

Oscar Delancey rarely forgot a face, and he _never_ forgot an insult.

He considered it a particular talent of his, memorizing appearances, keeping a mental catalogue of names, and being able to hold a grudge far longer than the other party involved could probably even remember. It wasn't easy being this meticulous, but Oscar had honed his craft for years, and at this point of his life was now quite good at it.

The newsboys might have been ignorant of this fact, but Oscar remembered each mocking jab and every snide remark, no matter how teasing. He kept a mental ledger of insults, and almost every one of the scruffy, ill-mannered newsies' names was somewhere in it. Jack Kelly and Racetrack Higgins were, of course, the primary offenders, and the disrespectful taunts they directed towards Wiesel on a daily basis never failed to rankle Oscar (not because he was particularly close to his uncle, but because it was a matter of family pride). He'd wanted to confront them often enough, but Kelly was strong and Higgins was cunning, and besides that, Oscar knew that it was bad for business to incite disorder at the distribution center (and that there were far fewer witnesses if you waited until after hours to soak someone). That didn't stop him from occasionally picking on some of the smaller or weaker newsies to blow off steam, but he kept his indignation under control as long as he was on the clock.

He'd learned the newsies' names by watching and listening (he was always listening from his place behind the distribution counter) - knowing someone's name meant you had just that much more control over them, so he made it a point to take notice. The newsies were a rather careless bunch when it came to showing their weaknesses, and Oscar took advantage of that too, shrewdly observing mannerisms and habits and keeping a record of vulnerabilities that could be exploited in the future.

He knew more about the newsies than they had probably thought to imagine.

He knew, for example, that the one they called Specs was blind as a bat without his glasses (Oscar had contemplated breaking them often enough, but Specs was actually fairly respectful, and Oscar did have a singular, if twisted, sense of fairness. Besides, he feared retaliation from Kelly, who was unapologetically aggressive when it came to protecting his boys).

He knew that the one called Romeo was ignorant and naive and that his trusting nature and penchant for flirting often blinded him to the deception in others.

He knew that the one called Finch was impatient and antsy, unable to sit still and fearful of even the smallest threat despite his outward gumption and considerable skill with the slingshot he constantly carried on his person.

He knew that the disabled newsie, Crutchie, was mentally tough and unflappably spirited, but lately Oscar had also seen him lagging further behind the others, so he surmised that the newsboy's bum leg was giving him more trouble than usual.

Higgins' most noticeable weaknesses - his inclination to gamble and his spotty record at the track - were obvious, but Oscar had observed something even more interesting after watching the gambler for some time. Higgins was generally sarcastic and snarky, nearly as full of bravado as Kelly himself. But Higgins was also susceptible to mood swings, and when he went into one of his rare lows, he tended to isolate himself from the other newsies. Oscar had often thought that if there would ever be a good time to extract revenge, it would be during one of these times.

Indeed, when it came to picking out the weaknesses of the newsboys, Oscar had things fairly well in hand. The only one who had confounded his assessment was Kelly. The newsie leader kept up an unwavering front of confidence and was uniformly quick to a fight, showing no hesitation or vulnerability whatsoever, so thus far all of Oscar's attempts to ferret out Kelly's weakness had been unsuccessful.

At least, they had been unsuccessful until today.

It had been a typical morning at the distribution center, and it was only when Kelly began his blustering protest about the new newsie price that Oscar even remembered the ten cent increase in the first place (it didn't concern _him_, after all).

He watched the frantic newsies deliberate amongst themselves, disinterested and bored from his place behind the counter, until his sharp eyes caught onto something.

Kelly was rallying his boys to strike. That in and of itself was notable - Oscar wouldn't have expected the newsie leader to take such drastic measures. But that wasn't what really surprised him. What surprised him was that Kelly wasn't working alone. Someone was helping him, feeding him the words that he then distributed like bread to the ravenous newsboys. Oscar squinted, taking a closer look.

It wasn't just anyone helping Kelly. It was _him_. The new kid, the one from the day before - Nineteen Papes. He was the brain behind this.

Intrigued, Oscar sized him up. He was taller than Kelly, and probably tall enough to look Oscar in the eye - but he didn't look nearly as powerfully built, and if his clean attire was anything to go by, Nineteen Papes didn't live on the streets. He likely came from a home and a family, which meant he would be soft. In fact, Oscar remembered, he'd seen a little boy tagging along beside him - probably his brother. That could certainly be exploited.

The idea that Kelly would need or want an advisor was something that Oscar had never considered. He couldn't recall a time he had ever observed the newsie leader showing deference to any of his boys, not even to Higgins or to Crutchie, but oddly enough, here he was, appealing quite obviously to this newcomer. It meant that Nineteen Papes had something Kelly needed, something Kelly lacked.

Perhaps this was the weakness Oscar had been looking for.

As the protesting newsboys stomped off, storming out of the distribution center and leaving the day's papers untouched, Oscar burned with indignation at their defiance. But the thought of his recent observations mollified him somewhat, and he found himself not quite as angered as he normally would have been, perhaps even feeling a little bit pleased.

He didn't have enough to go on to begin plotting retribution yet, but it was a promising beginning. Nineteen Papes was the key - if Oscar could find out a little more about him - his name, his background, _his_ weakness, then maybe he'd finally be able to figure out a way to make Kelly crack.

* * *

Jack wasn't really surprised to find himself unceremoniously thrown out of the _New York World_ building. The thought that Pulitzer would have given them an audience had been a long shot to begin with, and he'd seen the look the burly constable who guarded the lobby had given him when he, Les, and Davey had burst through the doors. It was only a matter of minutes before the very same officer was shoving the three boys roughly back the way they came, intent, no doubt, on teaching them a lesson: that you couldn't just come barreling into the offices of Joseph Pulitzer without a proper appointment, especially not when you were just a bunch of scruffy-looking nobodies.

Jack felt himself tripping over Les' foot as they were pushed backwards through the doors. He knew how to break his fall, though, and while it wasn't the most graceful of landings, he fared better than the Jacobs brothers who clearly weren't used to being so rudely ejected from places. The spirited Les immediately sprang to his feet, shouting his defiance at the closing lobby doors. Davey looked like he'd had the wind knocked out of him, but he was quickly helped to his feet by the other newsies, all of whom continued to shout protests and pound the doors of the building.

Jack joined them, making his way to the head of the group. It didn't concern him that the attempts at negotiations had failed. He wasn't here to exchange pleasantries with Pulitzer. He was here to fight.

Crutchie came alongside Jack, his energetic voice rising above the din and his eager pounding against the doors as strong and forceful as any of the rest of the newsies. Jack couldn't help but grin at the verve of his closest friend. Most folks didn't take the time to look past the disabled leg, the limp, the crutch...but if they had, they would have quickly realized that what made Crutchie who he was wasn't any of those things - it was his spirit, steady, fierce, loyal, and brave. The newsies drew hope from Crutchie, and his enduring strength made him the heart of the lodging house.

On Jack's other side, Race was energetically shouting at the top of his lungs, gesturing animatedly with his cigar and looking like he was having the time of his life. The gambler could be notoriously hard to read, but today he wasn't holding back, letting the excitement show on his face as he drank in the moment. Race was fearless. If Jack was first to a fight, Race was always right at his shoulder, raring to brawl and ready to take down anyone regardless of his own safety or the relative size or strength of his opponent. His recklessness didn't always serve him well, but his willingness to put himself on the line for others had earned him a well-deserved respect.

It had been the three of them- Crutchie, Race, and Jack - working together for several months now, keeping the lodging house running, settling disputes between the younger newsies, and keeping watch over their band of brothers. They made a good team, and Jack was thankful to have both of the other boys by his side.

Unfortunately, each of them in their own way could be quite impulsive, and when they were together, the effect was only intensified. It was a running joke that they had fists and fearlessness enough between them but not an ounce of restraint. Crutchie, perhaps, was the calmest of the three, but even he could be easily caught up in the zeal of his two more reckless friends. A calm, cool voice of reason was sorely lacking in the lodging house, and Jack had often privately lamented this when he found himself once again patching up a band of battered newsies after his hotheadedness (and Race and Crutchie's respective inability and unwillingness to temper it) had landed the group in yet another situation that turned out to be more than they could handle.

He hoped that this wasn't another one of those situations.

It felt different this time, though. Hadn't the annoyingly detailed discussion at the distribution center proved that there was nothing else they could do? Jack wasn't used to having to think things through quite so thoroughly, but the increase in price had presented a surprisingly complicated problem. Of course, surrender was not an option, but blatantly defying _The World_ wasn't something you rushed into blindly without making sure you at least _partially_ knew what you were doing.

Thank goodness Davey had happened to be there.

Jack didn't often feel the need to ask for a second opinion. He felt that it was his job as leader to have the answers, and he knew that he needed to present as competent and self-assured if he was to retain the newsies' respect. Occasionally, he would ask another boy for his opinion, and he regularly relied on both Race's and Crutchie's insights for situations involving lodging house matters and any new recruits. But when it came to deciding what to do, Jack operated as the sole and undisputed leader.

He'd intuitively sensed, however, that this strike was a different kind of animal. Jack didn't have the experience or book-smarts to know how a union worked or how to go about forming one. He could be the face of the strike, the blustering force and the protesting fist, ready to stand in the line of fire and ready to rile up the boys as necessary. But he knew that there was more to it than that.

So Jack had done something very out of character but very calculated: he'd asked for Davey's opinion. In doing so, he'd not only drawn out the information he'd needed about the strike, but he'd had also managed to drag the other boy into something he'd clearly wanted no part in - at first.

Jack glanced over to where Davey was standing, adding his shouts to the uproar that continued to swell outside the offices of _The World_. Davey's bearing and expression showed evidence of self-restraint, as if letting out his anger wasn't something that he did very often, but there was clear and resolute conviction in his voice, as though having satisfied his deliberate, methodical, question-raising nature, he could now fully commit himself to the cause.

Jack resisted the urge to grin. Davey's cautious personality and anxious temperament had seemed on the outset to be a poor fit for the headline-hawking profession, and Jack, even after Race's reassurances, had secretly retained his nagging doubt that even several months on the job could ever make a decent newsie out of the older Jacobs brother.

However, after today, he realized that perhaps Davey had crossed paths with them for a different purpose. Maybe they'd picked up a book-smart walking mouth who could tell you all the answers but would never be very good at selling papes.

But maybe they'd also just found their voice of reason.

* * *

Margaret was waiting at her usual spot by the door for Sadie as the latter hurriedly gathered up her lunch pail, slate, and school book and made her way over to her friend. Abby had already gone ahead with some of her classmates and knew to wait for Sadie at the corner where the little group would part ways, so it was just the two older girls for the time being.

"So, how has your birthday been so far?" Sadie asked as she and Margaret linked arms and left the schoolhouse.

"Well, lunch time wasn't the same without you," Margaret answered, "but I appreciate the effort you put into my birthday brownies. I know that baking isn't your strong suit."

Sadie laughed. "That's putting it mildly! Abby told me this morning that I should just stick to soup, and she's probably not wrong. It was a bad idea to try out a new recipe on a school morning, though I suppose the next time around I'll have more luck. I do wish I hadn't had to miss lunch on your birthday, though."

"Well, there will be other lunches and other birthdays," Margaret said consolingly. They walked in companionable silence for a while. "So, do you want to tell me why you were so interested in the lesson today?" Margaret asked curiously, suddenly changing the subject. "I've never heard you ask so many questions in class."

Sadie sighed. She should have known that her best friend would have noticed. "I'm going to be tutoring one of our classmates who can't be in school right now," she said, "and you know how academically-minded I am, Megs. I _have_ to ask questions if I'm to have any hope of understanding the material...school isn't my strong suit any more than baking is."

"Wait…" Margaret's eyes narrowed. "You're not talking about David, are you? He's the only one who's missed class these last few days."

"Actually, Megs, that _is_ who I'm talking about."

Margaret gave her friend an incredulous look. "How ever did you get roped into that?"

"I volunteered," Sadie admitted ruefully. "I'd be lying if I said I didn't regret it, but it just seemed like the right thing to do at the time." Briefly, she filled her friend in on the circumstances that had necessitated Davey's absence from school.

"Well, isn't that kind of you to help him out!" Margaret exclaimed, clearly entertained at the thought. "I'm sure he's thrilled; he _does_ seem like the bookish type, so it must be killing him not to be in class." Her smile turned teasing as she added, "If you keep this up, Sadie, you'll have him wrapped around your little finger in no time."

Sadie shot an unamused look in her direction. "That's highly unlikely, Margaret," she said dryly.

"Don't play dumb, Sadie," the other girl chided. "We both know that you can be charming when you want to be."

"I'm just trying to help him adjust, Megs. His family lives in our tenement, after all. And don't you remember what it felt like to be new and out of place? Aren't you glad I made friends with _you?_"

"Yes, I _am_ glad," Margaret said sincerely. Her family had moved to Manhattan almost five years ago, and she'd been grateful when Sadie had instantly befriended her, bringing her into a group of classmates that had made Margaret's adjustment to school much easier. "But I'm also not quite as susceptible to your charms as I'd imagine David would be," she added, unwilling to give up teasing her friend.

Sadie shook her head. "Davey's much too sensible to think anything of my pertness."

"'_Davey_'?" Margaret echoed, raising an eyebrow. "So he's got a nickname now?"

"Lay off it, Megs," Sadie warned. "I told you, I'm just trying to help him out, and I only tease him because he takes himself too seriously. I'm sure that if he was more comfortable he'd open up, and I'd like to see him be more himself." She paused, then added thoughtfully, "I'm still convinced that he's a talker at heart and just needs to be drawn out."

"You're really making it hard for me not to wager on that with you," Margaret smirked. "But I know you're not a betting girl."

"That's fortunate for you in this case," Sadie retorted, smugly thinking of what she'd witnessed on her walk to school that morning, "because I'm absolutely certain that I'd end up the winner." She tugged on her friend's arm. "Come on, let's convince Abby to take a quick detour to the confectionery before we head home! I owe you a birthday treat."

* * *

**A/N**: I realize that this is yet another chapter moving us only a few hours further along in the canon timeline...thank you for humoring me, gracious readers. I sometimes consider cutting things out to try to keep everything moving a bit faster, but this is generally how the inner dialogue goes:

Percie Jean: What's it gonna take to stop the subplots? Are we ready?

Plot bunnies: NO!

Percie Jean: What's it gonna take to speed the pace up? Can we do it?

Plot bunnies: NO!

(Even though they ain't got hats or badges, they're clearly union...and they generally get their way).

Thanks for reading! If you'd be so kind as to leave me a review, I'd greatly appreciate it (and the plot bunnies would too!).


	11. Front Page News

**Disclaimer: **This is a non-commercial work of fanfiction. Anything recognizable from _Newsies_ belongs to Disney and not to me.

* * *

Chapter 11: Front Page News

"Miss Plumber, there's a call for you. A Hannah Blumberg from _The World_."

Katherine looked up in surprise to see Jenny, one of the secretaries, standing in front of her desk expectantly. "I understand it's urgent," the young woman added.

Worriedly, Katherine set aside the notes she'd been jotting down and rose from her desk, following Jenny over to the telephone that sat on the secretary's desk. Jenny gave her the handset, then courteously stepped away to give the reporter some privacy.

Trying to keep her voice level, Katherine spoke into the receiver. "Hannah?" she said tersely. "It's Katherine."

"Kathy, I'm sorry to bother you at work," came the older woman's voice. "I know you don't like us calling you at the office, but I've got something to tell you that can't wait. It might be a breaking story, even!"

Belatedly wishing that she'd thought to bring her notepad, Katherine snatched a pencil and a scrap of paper from Jenny's desk. "What is it?" she asked excitedly, trying to keep her voice level.

"Well, just a few minutes ago, I went downstairs to receive the mail," Hannah said. "When I got there, the constable informed me that a group of children had just tried to force their way into the offices and had been kicked out, but I could hear them pounding on the doors outside, so I ran upstairs to look out of the window. It was a group of newsies, Kathy, all riled up and carrying on!"

"Newsies?" Katherine asked. "The ones who sell _The World_?"

"I'm almost sure of it," Hannah answered. "Mr. Wiesel from the distribution center called over not long after that reporting that the boys had refused to purchase the morning's papers in protest of the price increase."

"A protest against _The World_?" Katherine repeated, hurriedly jotting down notes. Now _this _was a story.

"Hannah," she asked quickly, "are the newsboys still demonstrating outside?"

"No," came the disappointing answer. "I don't know where they went - it was all over so fast - but if you're looking to find them, I'd check around the distribution center first. Maybe someone there will have a tip off; it can't be that hard to spot a group this large, especially when they're trying to be noticed."

"Thank you, Hannah," Katherine said, hoping the other woman could hear the gratitude in her voice. "It's a great lead, and I'll get on it right away." Saying a quick goodbye, she hung up the phone and hurried back to her desk to collect her notepad and pen, then hurried downstairs, out of the building, and down the street towards the distribution center. After walking for several blocks and failing to see a single newsboy, Katherine's excitement grew. Something _was_ going on - something big - hopefully the big story that she'd been so desperately waiting for.

If she could find the newsies first and get the scoop on their protest before the reporters from _The Sun's_ competitors did, she could be the one to break this thing wide open and maybe catapult her career to the next level in the process, permanently leaving the social pages behind. Katherine smiled, quickening her pace as the distribution center came into view.

It was shaping up to be a red-letter day, thanks to her father's saint of a secretary.

* * *

Davey quaffed his glass of water, letting the lukewarm liquid slake his thirst. He couldn't remember the last time he'd raised his voice so much, and he was thankful to have a reprieve from all of the impassioned shouting.

As exhilarating as it had been to storm the gates of _The_ _World_, the results had been less than what he'd hoped for. There had been no audience with Pulitzer, no opportunity for appeal, and no negotiations. Davey's optimism that perhaps the issue of the price increase could have been solved by a reasonable conversation had all but disappeared when he, Jack, and Les had been thrown out of _The World_ without so much as a "by your leave."

...which brought them to where they were now, sitting clustered around a group of tables in Jacobi's Deli with the rest of the newsies, still high on excitement and righteous indignation, but without a concrete plan for what to do next.

They would have to see the strike through, that much was clear. Now that _The World_ was aware of their protest, it was unlikely that the newsboys would be able to catch them off guard again to force another entrance. They would just have to find a way to make their voices impossible to ignore. They'd certainly made an impression already - and that much was worthy of celebrating.

Taking another sip of water, Davey cleared his throat and announced brightly, "I'd say we launched our strike in a most auspicious manner!"

Bewildered silence greeted his declaration.

"Ain't so sure about that," one newsie said finally after no one else seemed to know how to answer, "...but we gave Weasel and the Delanceys the surprise of the century!"

The rest of the boys began laughing and joking until Jack, clearly intent on keeping his easily-distracted troop from degenerating into complete hilarity, jumped onto one of the tables to catch their attention. "Alright, alright, keep it together," he chided good-naturedly. "What's next, huh?" he asked, rubbing his hands together in anticipation.

Davey set down his glass of water. "The best thing to do would be to gather reinforcements from the city's other boroughs." They had to keep their momentum going while the element of surprise was still in their favor and the newspaper owners were still off-balance. Fortifying their ranks with the newsboys from the other areas of the city would be pivotal so that when their opponents did recover sufficiently to counterattack, they would find themselves up against a much larger army than they'd initially encountered.

"You heard Davey!" Jack affirmed, sounding pleased at the suggestion. "Let's get the word out!

The newsies eagerly began volunteering to visit the different territories, with Jack assigning some of the districts that hadn't been picked up. All progressed quickly and efficiently...until he got to Brooklyn.

"Oh c'mon...none of you sorry bummers is gonna take on Brooklyn?" Jack scowled at the rest of the boys who were suddenly and studiously avoiding eye contact. He looked around the group, picking out the first newsie to flinch. "Hey Finchy, you tellin' me you's scared of Spot Conlon's turf?"

"I ain't scared!" the singled-out Finch retorted hotly. "Just a little...jittery." Mutters of agreement were heard all around, and Jack threw his hands up in disgust.

"Fine," he declared. "Me and Davey will take Brooklyn!"

"Me?" Davey exclaimed. "No, find someone else. I'm not going to - "

"Why does Brooklyn have you all so jumpy?" came a curious voice from the back of the deli.

All eyes turned towards the newcomer as a well-dressed young woman confidently made her way to the center of the group. She had a pen and a pad of paper in her hand and was wearing one of the most eager smiles Davey had seen in a while.

"What are you doin' here?" Jack asked, clearly caught off guard. He jumped down from his perch on the table, regarding the woman with what looked like a mixture of wariness and fascination. "How'd you find us, huh? You trackin' me or somethin'?" He ducked down behind Davey's chair.

The woman rolled her eyes at Jack's dramatics. "A witness at the distribution center tipped me off, and I'm a reporter, remember? The only thing I follow are stories." Glancing around the group of boys, she continued, "A scrappy group of ragamuffins is going up against the big shots of New York City." A laugh suddenly bubbled up, as though someone had just her told a particularly amusing joke, and Davey found himself huffing in irritation as she added patronizingly, "Do you actually think you have a chance?"

"'Scuse me for askin,' but ain't you supposed to be at the ballet?" Jack asked, his condescending tone making it clear he was ready to fight fire with fire.

The reporter smirked. "Oh, did I confuse you there?" she asked, as though talking to a ten-year-old. "Let me simplify my question for you." She paused, then said slowly and deliberately, "Do you really think New York's big shots will bother to notice a group of boys who haven't got a nickel to their names?"

"Hey!" Crutchie broke in, catching everyone off-guard with his vigorous response. "That's _insultin'_, and it ain't right. I got a nickel."

Surprisingly, it was his heated and straightforward response that sobered her up a bit.

"Well, I suppose instead you could call yourselves a group of Davids poised to take on Goliath," she amended, adjusting her description of the newsboys to a much less derogatory metaphor as she scribbled something down on her notepad.

"We wouldn't call ourselves that." Davey stood, reluctantly breaking into the conversation. Jack didn't seem to be interested in doing anything more than trade insults, but someone really ought to address this self-assured reporter before her conjectures got too out of hand. The sooner someone set the record straight, the sooner she could be on her way and out of their business.

She looked up at Davey, giving him the same indulgent smile she'd flashed at the others. "You wouldn't have to," she said simply, returning to her scribbling. "I'd do it for you."

"Hey, what's your name, huh?" Jack broke in before Davey could say anything more.

"Katherine," she answered. "Katherine Plumber."

"You know, Plumber…" Jack sauntered towards her, "I've seen a lot of papes in my day, but I ain't never noted no girl reporters writin' serious stories like ours."

There was a brief flash of irritation in her eyes. "Well, catch up to the times," she retorted, finally looking up from her notepad. "Everything's changing. Now…" she spread her arms wide, her smile once again returning, "what about exclusive interview for _The Sun_?"

"Ain't this a little bit outside of your field of expertise? You's in entertainment, ain'tcha?"

Jack's parade of deflecting questions puzzled Davey. Wasn't it obvious that this woman - Katherine - only dug her heels in further the more you attempted to belittle her?

"I'd call this _plenty_ entertaining," she quipped, clearly not opposed to trading barbs as she raised an eyebrow at Jack in challenge.

Hold on a minute. Were they..._flirting? _Davey didn't consider himself to be an expert when it came to these kinds of things, but there was something intense and charged about the way they were sizing each other up that made him think that coming to a reasonable and efficient end to this conversation really wasn't the top priority in either of their minds.

"When's the last time you wrote hard news?" Jack asked, taking a few steps towards Katherine until he was uncomfortably close.

"When's the last time you led a strike?" she shot back, leaning in so that her face was only inches away from his own.

They were definitely flirting, Davey concluded. He fought the impulse to roll his eyes in frustration. Whatever Jack's connection was to this reporter, it wasn't really the time or place to be trifling with this kind of banter. They had the strike to think about, after all, and time was wasting.

Reluctantly, he interjected once again. "I think we'll save any exclusive interview for a real reporter." It was a calm and matter-of-fact statement, but it succeeded in pulling Katherine away from her showdown with Jack.

"Do you really think there's any other reporter in this city who will care what you have to say?" she exclaimed angrily, whipping around to look Davey in the eye.

He returned her level stare without flinching. If the confrontation only moments before had been an arch exchange between two sparring partners intent on riling each other up, this stare-down was the calculated appraisal of two strategists trying to determine how to out-maneuver the other (but Katherine wouldn't find Davey nearly so easily distracted as Jack).

She was bluffing. Davey was almost certain of it. If the strike was really so insignificant that no one else would bother trying to cover it, why would she be so insistent on securing an interview, especially an exclusive one? She was desperate to break open the story, that much was clear - no manner of condescension on her part could hide the fact that she needed them to cooperate with her.

Could news exposure help advance the cause of the strike? Davey had never considered it before, but it made sense. More publicity could only help them, especially if it was written from a sympathetic point of view. Perhaps they should take Katherine up on her offer; they had the upper hand in this case, and while her patronizing attitude had not indicated her support of their cause per se, it _had_ indicated at least an undeniable level of interest. If the newsies could negotiate for a compelling portrayal of their cause, this could turn out to be a mutually beneficial arrangement.

Words - words were always the key, weren't they? Davey mused. The right words could have the city on their side in days, hours even. Could they trust this reporter to be their voice?

Katherine was the first to look away.

"Alright," she admitted, breaking eye contact with Davey, "I''ll come clean - I'm still a new reporter looking for my big break." She turned towards Jack again. "But if you give me a chance and let me run with it, I _promise_ I'll get you in the paper. A story like this should be on the front page."

So, she _had_ been bluffing, Davey thought, pleased with himself. They weren't just a bunch of nobodies that the newspapers wouldn't care to bother with; they were front page news! He hid a grin.

"You want our story?" Jack asked.

Katherine nodded.

"Then come to the circulation gate tomorrow mornin'!" the newsie leader declared. "And make sure to bring your camera!"

The excitement in the room was palpable as the newsies talked excitedly amongst themselves at the prospect of getting their picture in the papes, and even Mr. Jacobi's appearance and instructions to vacate the premises did nothing to quell their growing enthusiasm.

"You's gonna be beggin' us to stay once we's famous and get our _pics_ in the _papes_!" Race declared as he thumbed his nose cheekily at Mr. Jacobi.

The rest of the newsies cheered in agreement as they filed out of the deli, and this time Davey allowed himself to smile.

* * *

Sadie tucked a wayward strand of hair behind her ear as she climbed the stairs to her family's apartment. The trip to the confectionery had turned into an extended shopping trip, as Margaret's parents would be throwing her a birthday party in a few days, and they'd needed her to pick up some supplies.

After dropping Abby off at a friend's house where she would be staying for dinner, Sadie had hastily made her way back to the tenement, a bit flushed and wind-blown from all of the hurried walking she'd done that day. She would be just a few minutes late to dinner, and while her mother would probably understand, especially since Sadie had brought back a small bag of Lilly's favorite candies, she'd already been tardy enough for one day.

As she stepped onto the landing, Sadie saw with surprise that someone was standing just a ways down the hall from the Becker apartment, leaning against the wall and with his head down, clearly lost in thought.

"Davey?" Sadie peered at him curiously as she approached. "Is something wrong?"

He started a bit, straightening up and adjusting the cap on his head before answering her question.

"No - no, nothing's wrong," he said quickly. "Sorry, I just wanted to make sure I caught you before you went to dinner." He paused, looking a bit distracted, and Sadie wondered if the newsboys' protest had not gone as he'd expected.

"I won't be able to come by for tutoring tonight," Davey finally continued, shaking his head a bit as if to clear his thoughts. "I'm really sorry, but something happened today. The newspaper owners raised the price of papers for the newsboys, and...well...we went on strike." The words came out slowly, as if he was still trying to process it all. "We're going to try to rally the newsies in the other neighborhoods to our cause, and we have to get to them as soon as we can, so I need to go to Brooklyn. I don't know how late I'll be back." He ducked his head. "I know I said I'd come over to the office tonight, and I don't usually break my promises...but I really have to do this. I'm sorry, Sadie."

He gave her a regretful look, and Sadie found herself readily forgiving him...even if she wasn't going to let him see how easily she'd been won over.

"Fine," she answered with a little pout. "But you owe me, Davey Jacobs."

She stepped past him, walked down the hall, and was about to open the door to her family's apartment, when he said hesitantly, "If we're keeping score...I did save you from falling that one time." Sadie glanced back in surprise as Davey added, "Shouldn't that count for something?"

So, he was actually bantering back! Sadie hid a smile, curious to see if he would keep up his mild resistance. "Well, you got a new shirt out of it," she countered.

"Because my favorite one got painted," he replied, more assertively than before.

Sadie shrugged. "I _am_ sorry that I ruined your favorite shirt. It was unintentional. But in my defense, I didn't force you to catch me."

"I don't recall forcing you to tutor me either," Davey returned with a little smile.

The smile caught her off guard, and Sadie huffed, abandoning their exchange. "Davey, I paid attention in class all morning, actually took notes, and told Margaret I couldn't go over to visit her tonight because I had to review the lesson before teaching it to you!" she groused, wanting him to hear at least a little bit of the inconvenience he had caused her if he was going to be audacious enough to make jokes about it.

His smile slipped. "You did?"

"Yes, Davey, I did," Sadie answered. "In case you haven't noticed, these things don't come naturally to me like they do to you." Seeing the guilty look on his face, she raised her chin imperiously. "So I do believe this puts you in debt for bailing on me tonight." Before he could say anything, she added, "I'll figure out how you can make it up to me later...but I promise that it will involve you doing something ridiculous."

"Wait, but - Sadie - that's not fair!" Davey protested.

She shrugged indifferently. "You're the one who's backing out on me. Don't worry - it won't be something _outlandishly_ ridiculous - just moderately so."

"That's not very reassuring," Davey muttered.

"Well, maybe you should have thought of the consequences before canceling tonight," Sadie said loftily, having entirely too much fun watching him agonize a bit. (He may have caught her off guard earlier with his pleading look and unexpected smile, but she wasn't going to give him the upper hand _that_ easily).

Davey's expression turned serious, and Sadie realized, too late, that he'd taken her teasing statement seriously. "You're right," he admitted quickly. "I'm the one at fault here, and I shouldn't be complaining." The regret was there again as he added, "I'm sorry for backing out on you at the last minute, and that you had to go through so much trouble to help me, Sadie. I promise, I'll make it up to you in -" he gulped, " - in whatever way you decide."

He really was worried about the consequence she was planning to mete out, and Sadie found herself both perplexed and amused that the same boy who had passionately rallied a band of newsboys to go on strike just hours ago could be so intimidated by someone like her. Davey stood at least a full head taller and was unarguably far brighter than she, but somehow she'd managed to subdue him even when she'd only meant to tease.

Perhaps she should lay off the teasing for just a bit.

"Davey, I'm not upset at you," she said gently, seeking to reassure her anxious neighbor. She stepped closer, giving him a persuasive smile. "Don't look so distressed, all right? All joking aside, I understand why you need to go, and I promise that there are no hard feelings." She really wasn't angry at him after all, and she didn't want him to feel guilty over something as minor as this, especially when he clearly had so many other things on his mind.

"Really?" he asked, sounding doubtful. "Are you sure?"

"Yes, really," Sadie repeated. "Don't give it a second thought."

Davey sighed, his relief evident in his voice and in his posture. "Thank you," he said gratefully. "That...that means a lot. And I really do appreciate you helping me with my schoolwork." He paused a moment, then glanced at her hopefully, "So...I'm off the hook then?" he asked. "About doing something ridiculous?"

Sadie laughed. She'd capitulated enough for tonight, and Davey was mistaken if he thought he'd get away that easily. "Not a chance!" she retorted. Tossing a smile in his direction, she walked over to her family's apartment and unlocked the door. "I'll see you tomorrow, Davey," she called over her shoulder as she stepped inside. "Good luck in Brooklyn - be careful, all right?" And before he could answer, she shut the door behind her.

If Davey was brave enough to lead a group of newsboys into a strike, she thought, he could certainly handle doing something a little ridiculous.

* * *

**A/N:** So, a while back, I started wondering why school would be in session during the time the strike took place (in July). In the play, Davey tells Les, "When Pop goes back to work, we go back to school," which seems to imply they are actually missing school when they become newsboys (unless Mr. Jacobs' injury was so bad that Davey's assuming it will take several months for him to get better, which would put them at the beginning of a traditional school year). I did some casual research (read: Googling), and I couldn't find much on year-round schooling during that time period, but I did read one article on the Niche blog (and frustratingly, I can't find the article now to cite it) saying that year-round education actually did exist in the 1800s, and that the approach was used by some industrial cities in response to the complications of overcrowding, so I'm just going with that as the explanation.

[End of gratuitous note about a subject that probably bothered no one but me].


	12. Back from Brooklyn

**Disclaimer: **This is a non-commercial work of fanfiction. Anything recognizable from _Newsies_ belongs to Disney and not to me.

* * *

Chapter 12: Back from Brooklyn

"I gotta say, Spot was pretty impressed, wasn't he?" Jack asked as he and Davey left Brooklyn's newsboy lodging house behind and began the long walk back to Manhattan.

"I'll say," Davey agreed, pulling up short as a carriage clattered past him and down the road. Glancing in both directions, he spotted a break in the traffic and strode quickly across the street, Jack hot on his heels. "And he's got quite an impressive group of newsies under his command," Davey added. "I felt like I was in an army barrack or something." He glanced curiously at Jack. "I haven't really been around long enough to be sure about this," he ventured, "but it seems like you run things a little differently in Manhattan."

Jack shrugged. "I like to give my boys their freedom, long as it ain't hurtin' no one. Spot's different. He likes control."

Davey looked thoughtful but didn't say anything immediately in response, and they walked in silence for a while. They had arrived in Brooklyn just as the sun was beginning to set, but now the night had crept in and the lights of the city were winking on, a thousand glittering pinpoints piercing the twilight's dusky glow.

"I've never walked through this much of Brooklyn before," Davey remarked, taking in the neighborhood around him. "It's a lot bigger than I remember it."

"Wait, hold on," Jack interjected in confusion. "You tellin' me you ain't a 'Hattan boy?"

Davey shrugged. "I'm not really sure what you'd call me," he answered slowly. "My family's moved a lot - five times in all. We lived in Brooklyn for a few years, and Les was born here, but we moved again shortly after he arrived." He paused, then added, "We actually haven't even been in Manhattan for too long."

Jack grunted. That explained a lot of things. The reluctance to become selling partners. The nervous insistence on keeping Les within arm's reach. The wariness that never seemed to completely leave, even on the few occasions Jack had seen Davey let his guard down. Between the recent move and his father's sudden accident, he'd had to adjust to a lot of things quickly, and Jack had transitioned enough newsies into his lodging house to know that a family crisis and a change of dwelling weren't easy on anyone, ever.

Jack had swapped lodgings several times in his life, but Manhattan had always been his home. He'd been born there, was raised (if you could call it that) there, and was half-resigned to the fact that he would probably die there too, though most days he fought that thought with every fiber of his being. His sense of identification with the borough had only grown when he'd taken over leadership of the lodging house, and while the ties holding him in Manhattan were tenuous, those ties had always been there.

What would it be like to never stay somewhere long enough to feel fully settled? To always be saying goodbye to any friends you'd made, and to continually have to start over, not knowing whom you could depend on or trust?

Jack shook his head, his respect for Davey growing a bit as he contemplated the other boy's situation. He honestly hadn't thought much about Davey and Les' personal circumstances - he'd only seen them (well, Les) as a way of boosting sales, and later on as potential allies in the strike effort. The fact that the Jacobs brothers had folks and a place to go back to at the end of the day seemed to indicate that their lives were more solid, secure, stable… and complete. It hadn't occurred to Jack that Davey could be looking for a place to belong just as much as any of the rag-tag homeless boys who had stumbled through the door of the lodging house and had found themselves a part of Jack's unconventional family.

"You sure is takin' all of this pretty well," Jack remarked aloud, allowing a bit of admiration to leak into his voice.

Davey looked over at him in surprise. "What do you mean?" he asked.

"Movin.' Becomin' a newsie. Startin' a strike." Jack shrugged. "Most of the fellas wouldn't be able to handle all that happenin' to them so fast, but you ain't even flinchin.'"

"Glad I'm fooling someone!" Davey answered with a laugh. It came out a bit shaky, but Jack could tell that he was pleased by the compliment.

"Come on, Davey," he scoffed. "'Foolin' someone'? You tellin' me that rousin' speech you gave the boys today was all for show?"

"It wasn't for show!" Davey insisted, surprising Jack with his fervent response. "I meant what I said. I don't say things unless I mean them."

"But you ain't feelin' all that confident about the strike?" Jack pressed. He tried to keep his tone lighthearted, but held his breath slightly as he waited for Davey to answer.

The other boy didn't respond right away, clearly weighing his words before replying.

"It's not that I don't feel confident about it. I know it's the right thing to do - and I don't know what else we _can_ do at this point - but that doesn't mean I'm not worried." He glanced at Jack. "I'm sure the newspaper owners will respond in some way to the strike tomorrow. I just hope that Brooklyn and the others come to back us up. And that if they don't, that we're still able to stand our ground."

"Wait, hold on a second," Jack demanded. "You just said you thought Spot sounded impressed. You think there's a chance he ain't gonna get behind us?"

"He seemed like he was sizing us up, Jack," Davey sighed. "Remember, he said he wanted to be sure we weren't going to fold at the first sign of trouble."

Jack grimaced. He _did_ remember the parting comment Spot had made when they were already halfway out the door. He was used to Spot's cageyness, but they had a mutual respect and a few years of history together, so Jack (perhaps too cockily) had assumed that the Brooklyn leader, despite his ambiguous answers, would throw his support - and the muscle of his newsies - behind Manhattan when all was said and done. Clearly, Davey wasn't so sure.

"But you still think we should go ahead with it?" Jack asked, pushing the thought aside for a moment. "The strike, I mean?"

"We have to," Davey answered, sounding weary but determined. "Even if no one else shows."

Jack grinned, not bothering to hide his relief at hearing the other newsie's answer. It wasn't exactly Race's confident bravado or Crutchie's plucky optimism, but it was Davey's own kind of fearlessness, and Jack could work with that.

"Well, ain't you the brave one!" he said, elbowing the other boy jokingly in the arm. "Guess Katherine was right after all - a David takin' on Goliath, huh?"

Davey shook his head, smiling a little. "I don't think it's bravery," he admitted. "And Katherine was talking about all of us when she said that." He paused, then added, "I guess I've just gotten used to doing things on my own without other people being there to back me up. That tends to happen when you're a perpetual new kid who doesn't make friends easily."

It was a matter-of-fact statement, but it was sobering to Jack nonetheless. He couldn't imagine who he'd be without a band of brothers at his back. "Too bad about all of the movin' you and your folks did," he muttered. It was an awkward attempt at sympathy, but it was the best he could do.

Davey shrugged. "I've adjusted. It hasn't been all that bad. The worst part about moving to a new neighborhood is making sure that Les doesn't run off and get himself lost or killed."

Jack chuckled, appreciating the dry humor. That sounded about right. "Speakin' of the kid...how'd you get him not to tag along tonight?" he asked curiously.

Davey sighed. "I put my foot down. And I promised that I would tell him all about our visit tomorrow morning." He grimaced. "Les has it in his head that the Brooklyn boys must be these imposing, burly giants, bigger and meaner than everyone else, since all of the Manhattan newsies are so afraid of them."

"Well, ain't you gonna burst the kid's bubble when you tell him ol' Spot's only an inch or two taller than him," Jack chuckled. "What about your folks?" he queried. "They ain't worried about their rule-followin' good boy traipsin' around Brooklyn late at night?"

"I didn't tell them I was going to Brooklyn," Davey answered shortly, ignoring the mild insult. "But I did promise that I'd explain when I got back."

Jack whistled. "You sure is gonna have a lot of explainin' to do." Not for the first time, he was thankful not to have a family waiting up for him. While he felt a strong sense of responsibility to look out for his boys, he didn't feel the need to answer to them for his choices, and the thought of being accountable to anyone in that way was...well, quite frankly, suffocating.

Jack liked being his own man, free to keep his own counsel and to do as he pleased. He wouldn't trade that independence for anything, no matter how comforting it could be to have a family. The responsibility to them - and the crushing burden of guilt if you failed - was too great. He would never want to be tied down the way Davey was.

"So...uh...what'd ya think of Katherine, huh?" Jack asked, changing the subject none-too-casually.

The other newsie gave him a knowing glance. "Does it matter what I think?" he asked pointedly. "The real question is what _you _think about her, Jack."

Jack felt an involuntary smile spread across his face. "She's incredible, Dave," he murmured.

"You two seemed to know each other," Davey remarked. "Before the conversation in the deli."

"I ran into her on the streets once when she was with another fella," Jack explained. "Saw her later that same day in Ms. Medda's theater. She was reviewin' the show, and I was there hidin' from the Spider."

"I know." Davey reminded him dryly, "I was there, too. Les and I were trying to figure out where you ran off to."

Jack had completely forgotten that.

"So it was love at first sight, then?" Davey asked, sounding mildly unimpressed.

Jack snorted. "Love at first sight's for suckers, Dave. It was at least second or third sight."

Davey scoffed.

"Hey," Jack scowled defensively. "You tellin' me you ain't ever been smitten by a pretty girl?"

The other newsie gave him a disbelieving look. "Do you think I've had time for that kind of thing, Jack?" he asked incredulously, as though Jack had just suggested that papes sold themselves. "I'm the perpetual new kid who's moved five times and doesn't make friends easily, remember?"

"Hey, what do you call me and the boys?" Jack protested, scowling in mock offense. "I know we ain't exactly long-time acquaintances…but that don't mean we ain't your friends...right?"

Davey was caught off guard, and it took him a moment to answer.

"Well," he faltered, "I...yes. I mean, yes - you are, if...if that's what you...want." He looked confused. And surprised. And maybe a little bit touched.

Jack shook his head, hiding a smile. _What a sap._

"So that ain't an excuse, then," he said, waving his hand dismissively. "You _do_ make friends easily. Still waitin' for your answer."

Davey sighed, his seriousness (and ability to speak clearly) returning. "Jack...I told you, I've never had the time. I didn't then, and I don't now. Between being a newsie, keeping Les out of trouble, and trying to not fall too far behind in school, my hands are full enough as it is, and my family's depending on me to make things work until my dad's better." He shook his head. "I can't afford to get caught up in that sort of...that sort of commitment."

Jack rolled his eyes. "You ain't any fun," he muttered. "Talkin' like it's some kinda big responsibility that needs to have a fifty-step plan or somethin.'"

"It _is_ a big responsibility," Davey retorted. "And you shouldn't jump into anything like that without a plan."

"It's a big _adventure_," Jack corrected derisively, "And you figure things out as you go, you stick-in-the-mud."

"Well...I'll leave you to your 'adventure,'" Davey answered cautiously, managing to sound both indulgent and wary at the same time (it probably came from being a big brother to Les, Jack thought). "But I'm warning you, Jack, if you go running off to chase Katherine again and leave me by myself to run the newsboy union, I'll…" he trailed off, clearly trying and failing to think of a suitable threat. "...well, I'll make you regret it," he concluded. "Somehow."

"I'm shakin' in my boots," Jack replied.

"I mean it." Davey frowned at him. "You roped me into this strike, Jack, and if it wasn't for you - "

"Ah, shaddup, Davey." Jack shoved the other boy good-naturedly before he could continue his anxious scolding. He pushed a little too hard, and Davey ended up stumbling into a pile of empty boxes, knocking them over and landing in a heap amongst them. He looked completely ridiculous, and Jack couldn't stop the guffaw that burst from his mouth before he reigned in his laughter. At first, he thought that Davey would be annoyed at the involuntary show of mirth at his expense. But instead, a grin spread across his face, and Jack found himself smiling too as he helped the other boy to his feet.

"You's more of a light-weight than I thought if you's gonna get taken' out _that_ easily," he joked. "Don't your ma ever feed you, Dave?"

"If it was up to her, I'd eat five meals a day and be twice my size," Davey grumbled, dusting himself off. "Remind me to never let you talk to her about my eating habits; between the two of you, you'd make my life miserable."

Jack chuckled, and they continued walking.

"Hey, speaking of my folks, do you want to sleep over at our place tonight?" Davey asked suddenly. "It'll save you a trip back to the lodging house."

Jack forced his voice to sound casual. "Thanks for the invite, but I gotta head back," he said. "The boys'll be lookin' for me."

"Are you sure?" Davey persisted, clearly concerned. "It's going to be really late by the time we get back to Manhattan."

"Yeah," Jack asserted. "I'm sure." He couldn't help adding, "besides, I dunno how your folks would feel about you invitin' over the reason why they ain't gonna have food on the table for the next few days until the strike gets settled."

"My parents aren't like that," Davey insisted. "They'd love to meet you. And...I'm just as much the reason for anyone going hungry as you." He gave Jack a serious look. "Don't blame yourself." Despite the hasty reassurance, Jack could tell that the thought bothered Davey, who quickly lapsed into silence, the sober look on his face returning.

Now that the subject of the strike's implications had been broached, Jack found himself mulling over what it would mean for the newsies if their protest became a standoff lasting several weeks. His boys were loyal, hot-headed, and brave - they would follow him into anything. But their impulsiveness went hand-in-hand with a general lack of patience, and the fact that most of them were forced to live day-to-day meant that very few of them thought much about the future. Jack knew that a handful of the more mindful and ambitious newsies, like Specs and Jojo, had started slowly putting away some savings, but aside from that, the majority of his boys wouldn't be able to last long if the strike wasn't settled within a few days.

Davey, apparently, was having similar thoughts. "Will the newsies be all right?" he asked. "If the strike drags on, I mean?"

Jack waved his hand, gesturing noncommittally. "It ain't gonna be easy on them, but we's made it through some tough times before. I got some money saved, Race has his winnings from the track, and we got the Newsie Fund, so if we need to, we dig into that, and it ought to get us through for a bit...long as this strike ain't gonna drag on like one started by the trolley workers." He doubted that the boys would be able to stick with it for that long even if the money didn't run out, but he chose not to say so.

"What about your folks?" he asked Davey. "They gonna be all right with you and Les bein' out of work?"

Davey grimaced. "I don't know," he said quietly. "That's...that's something I have to think about more. I know the money's tight, and we don't want to lose the lease on our apartment. Our landlord is giving us a really reasonable rate, so we can't afford to jeopardize that. Paying the rent will probably be the first priority. And food. My dad really should see a doctor for his leg...I don't know if we'll be able to afford that, but if he doesn't get things properly taken care of, his leg might not heal correctly, which means he could be out of work even longer, and that would be - " he broke off suddenly. "Sorry," he mumbled. "I didn't mean to ramble like that."

"It's okay, Dave," Jack said lightly. "I know you's worried about your folks."

"I still think going on strike was the right thing to do, though," Davey amended, a bit of his determination returning. "We can't just sit by and let the newspaper owners walk all over us. It's just that things are going to get a lot more difficult if the strike doesn't get settled quickly."

"Well, we just gotta hope that that ain't gonna be the case," Jack said confidently, clapping the other boy on the back. "And if worst comes to worst, I'm sure that big brain of yours'll come up with somethin.'"

"Me?" Davey sounded worried.

"Ain't you the one sayin' we always gotta have a plan for everything?" Jack joked.

"Well, yes," Davey rubbed the back of his neck. "But I don't think I'm really the best one to count on for ideas...at least, not ideas like that."

Jack chuckled quietly. "Give it a rest, Dave," he said, his tone mildly chiding. "You ain't gotta solve all the world's problems tonight."

They continued walking in silence for several minutes, and Jack's gaze was drawn upwards towards the night sky where the stars were just beginning to appear. The coolness of the evening air was soothing, and the newsie leader found himself relaxing as the Brooklyn Bridge came into view. They would be back on familiar turf soon, and he wouldn't let down his guard until they did, but he didn't feel as on edge as he normally did when he was making his way back from Brooklyn after dark.

"Hey Davey," Jack said cheerfully, breaking the silence once again, "let me tell you about how Sniper got his newsie name. It all started when Race found one of them little baby skunks hidin' out back behind the lodging house..."

The three hour walk back to Manhattan didn't feel nearly as risky or as long when you had a friend to share the trip with.

* * *

**A/N**: This chapter inspired a one-shot called "Recollection" which touches briefly on Davey's life in Brooklyn from a slightly unexpected point of view. :) If you're interested, please go check it out! Thanks for reading!


	13. Davey's Defense

**Disclaimer: **This is a non-commercial work of fanfiction. Anything recognizable from _Newsies_ belongs to Disney and not to me.

* * *

Chapter 13: Davey's Defense

If Mayer's leg hadn't been injured, Esther Jacobs knew without a doubt that her husband would have been wearing the floor clean through with his pacing. Instead, he was sitting restlessly at the table, his injured leg propped up on a stool, drumming his fingers softly against the worn wooden tabletop and looking both antsy and ill-at-ease.

It was getting later and later, and David still had not returned. Esther's candle, which she had customarily lit earlier in the evening, was burning low, and her composure was diminishing with it.

It was unlike her older son to willingly go somewhere at night. David was the kind who preferred a quiet evening at home, usually with a book, (though occasionally she'd seen him scribbling away in the journal he'd gotten as a birthday gift several years ago), so when he had approached them for permission to run an errand that night with one of the newsboys he'd met on the job, they had given their consent out of surprise as much as anything else.

Of course, they hadn't allowed David to leave before Esther had extracted a promise that he would explain everything to them upon his return. She could see that he wasn't surprised by her stipulation, which he quickly agreed to, but she also caught the look of reluctance in his eyes as he gave his assent.

David, while naturally reserved, had never been particularly adept at hiding things. Voluntary disclosure was not his way, but neither was subterfuge, and it only took someone knowing the right questions to ask or the right points to press for David to become an open book. It took time, however, to learn the art of drawing him out, and most people didn't have the time, let alone the inclination.

Esther, being David's mother, had made it a point to become proficient at opening up and reading her older son. He was like her in so many ways - quiet and pensive with a deep and occasionally turbulent inner thought life, and while he took his drivenness and nervous energy from Mayer, he was undoubtedly Esther's boy.

She knew that the significance of choosing to give permission first and request answers later was not lost on David. It would have been well within their rights as parents to demand an explanation for his uncharacteristic behavior before determining whether or not they would grant their consent. But Esther had seen the urgency in his face as he'd made his request and had sensed that this was something he felt he needed to do, so she'd trusted her instincts, subtly signaling to Mayer her assent, which he then gave as well. And David had responded with a relieved and grateful look that had been the closest thing to a smile she'd seen on his face in days. He knew that they were trusting him and that letting him go without requiring him to account for himself first was a mark of respect. Esther might have been imagining it, but she thought that David stood a little straighter and seemed a bit more confident as he left the apartment that night, and she hoped that his parents' show of confidence in him had given him the fortitude he needed to face whatever it was that awaited him.

She trusted David and knew that her responsible older son wasn't going to make any unwise decisions. But that didn't mean she wasn't worried about him. And it certainly wouldn't stop her from interrogating him soundly once he got home.

"Would you like to go to bed, Mayer?" Esther asked, giving her husband a concerned glance. She knew that the pain of his injury had been taxing on his stamina, and it was already much later than he normally retired for the night. "I can wait up for David."

"We'll wait together," Mayer answered, shifting slightly in his chair. "I'm as impatient as you are to hear his explanation." He glanced at Esther's sputtering candle, shaking his head at the lateness of the hour. "And it had better be a good one," he muttered.

No sooner had he said this, when they heard the sound of a key being inserted into the door of the apartment. The lock clicked softly and the door opened, revealing their son who looked weary and apologetic but none the worse for wear.

Esther sighed in relief.

"I'm sorry," David whispered, closing the door. He stole a quick glance in the direction of his brother, asleep in their bed in the corner of the room, then made his way quietly over to where his parents were sitting. "Things took a little longer than I expected."

"You did tell us that you might be out late," Esther answered, resting a gentle hand on his arm as he took a seat across from them at the table.

"That being said, your mother and I are quite keen to know why, exactly, you were out so late, David," Mayer added. His tone wasn't exactly stern, but it was commanding, and David sat up a little straighter.

"Yes, sir," he answered, giving a nod of deference to his father. He paused a moment, gathering his thoughts, then said slowly, "I'm sorry that I had to rush off earlier, and I'm sorry that I kept you up so late waiting. I'm not sure if Les has told you anything, and even if he hasn't, you probably suspect this by now...but today wasn't an ordinary day of selling for us."

"Les has been uncharacteristically closed-mouthed about whatever has transpired," Mayer answered shortly. "Please continue."

David looked shocked that his brother hadn't given away whatever confidential information they shared and seemed to be a bit at a loss. "Well..." he said, fiddling nervously with his necktie, "I suppose there's no easy way of breaking this news…" he glanced first at Mayer, and then at Esther, and then the words came out in a rush: " - but this morning the newspaper owners raised the price of papers by ten cents per hundred for the newsboys all over the city, so we went on strike."

None of them had been speaking loudly, and David's confession had been delivered in a rather muted tone, but the silence, by contrast, was deafening.

Esther's mind struggled to make sense of what she had just heard. This wasn't something her responsible, cautious son would do. How could he allow himself and Les get drawn into something so risky when he knew that their entire family's welfare was at stake? And on only his second day at the job? It wasn't like David at all...

"You went on strike?" Mayer finally broke the silence, sounding both incredulous and irate.

"I know it sounds crazy," David pleaded. "But please, Dad, just hear me out. I've thought a lot about this, and I promise you, I didn't agree to strike along with the rest of the newsboys without first weighing the consequences - "

"Weighing the consequences?" Mayer interrupted angrily. "_Weighing_ the _consequences_? Don't you understand, David? If you and Les don't sell papers, _we don't eat_!"

"I _know_!" David's voice was anguished. "I know, Dad. Just - please - _please_ let me explain." Esther could see that he was fighting to keep his emotions under control, and she could also sense her husband's growing indignation, so she quickly stepped in.

"Why did you feel that you and Les needed to join the strike, David?" she asked plainly. She wasn't going to feign an acceptance that she didn't feel, but she didn't want all of the work she'd done trying to reassure David of their trust in him to be unraveled in a few moments of reactionary anger.

David didn't answer for a moment, clearly trying to calm himself down and choose his words carefully before he spoke again.

"What the newspaper owners did wasn't very different than what Dad's bosses did to him after he got hurt on the job," he said finally. "By raising the price of papers, they were putting their own profits above the wellbeing of their employees." His eyes came up to meet Esther's. "Some of the newsboys can't afford to pay the ten cent increase," he said quietly, and she could see how troubled he was by the thought. "Losing that dime a day means losing a meal, maybe even lodging for the night. I haven't been around them long enough to fully understand all of the implications, but I do know that this isn't just about pinching pennies. It's about their survival."

David turned to his father. "Dad, when your bosses laid you off after your injury, they weren't thinking about how that would affect you or the rest of us. They were only thinking about their profit. And we had to accept their decision, because you didn't have a union to challenge them."

"I didn't think the newsboys had a union, either," Mayer interjected, sounding wary but a bit more calm than before.

David shifted in his seat. "Well..." he adjusted his necktie again. "You're right. They didn't." He cleared his throat. "Until today."

"What do you mean?" Esther asked.

"Jack - he's the leader of the Manhattan newsboys that sell _The World_ \- came up with the idea of going on strike, but he wasn't really sure how to go about it, so I helped him out a little," David explained, sounding mostly embarrassed but also slightly proud. "We organized the union first and then officially voted to go on strike. Since then, we've been trying to gather support from the rest of the city's newsboys. That's why I was out so late tonight. Jack and I went to Brooklyn to meet with the leader there to see if we could persuade him to join our cause. It'll be a lot more convincing to the newspaper owners tomorrow morning if we show up at the circulation gate with a big crowd of newsboys at our backs. And we're hoping that once they see that we aren't backing down, they'll reconsider and agree to roll back the prices to where they were."

"I assume you read the paper you were selling yesterday before this business of the strike took place?" Mayer asked. David nodded. "Then you must know, from your familiarity with what the trolley workers are encountering, that going on strike isn't merely amassing a group of angry workers to shout and shake fists at the powers that be," Mayer continued. He looked his son in the eye. "It's dangerous. If the newspaper owners decide to hire reinforcements to break up the strike, you, Les, and the other newsboys could be hurt. You should be concerned about your physical safety."

"I am," David responded. "Especially Les' safety. The last thing I'd want is to put him in danger." He returned his father's level gaze, and Esther could see that he was gathering his courage. "But we have to do this, Dad. I know it's a risk, and that the odds are against us, but if we don't take a stand now, what's going to stop the newspaper owners from treating us the way your bosses treated you? They've raised the prices once - what's going to keep them from doing it again?"

David paused as if to let the thought sink in, then added, "You always told me and Les that we had to stand up for people who couldn't stand up for themselves. The newsboys - they're just like me, except they don't have a home to go back to or parents to worry about them being out late at night. They don't have anyone to look out for them - they have to look out for themselves. This price increase is going to devastate them, and they don't have the strength to fight it alone. They have to stand together. And I have to stand with them. I have to try to help them through this...it's my responsibility."

He glanced over at Mayer's injured leg propped up on the stool beside the table.

"I'm not just doing it for the newsboys, Dad," he said quietly. "I'm doing it for you. I know it's not going to fix what happened to you after your accident, but if it keeps someone else from having to suffer from the same injustice...isn't that something worth fighting for?"

His eyes came up to meet theirs again, and for a minute, the silence hung heavily in the room. None of them stirred or made a sound. The only movement was that of the dwindling candle, its flickering light throwing shadows across the walls.

Then Mayer turned to Esther and remarked wryly, "Since when did our son become such a confident, well-spoken rebel?"

Esther considered the question for a moment before answering, "I believe it was right around two days ago, when you put him in charge of this family."

"In charge of being the _breadwinner_ for this family," Mayer corrected, shaking his head in amusement at his wife's mild teasing. "It's an _entirely_ different thing, my dear." He returned his attention to David, who looked extremely relieved to see that his parents' good humor was still intact despite his shocking news.

"Well, son," Mayer said, "it's clear that you feel you need to stand alongside the newsboys and see this through, and we want to let you follow your convictions." Mayer glanced at Esther, who gave a tiny nod, before continuing. "This doesn't mean the issue of the money goes away, however. Your mother was able to find some additional work at one of the factories nearby, so we'll have a little more money coming in from that, but it won't be enough to negate the loss of both your and your brother's incomes."

"I'll find a way to make up for it, Dad," David interjected quickly. "I'll think of something. I promise."

"There may actually be another temporary solution," his father said, holding up his hand and looking thoughtful. "When you were born, your mother and I started setting aside money for you - just a few coins here and there. We were planning to give it to you as a gift next year when you finished school. It's not much, just a modest reserve, but along with the income from your mother's job, it could help us through the next few weeks." He looked David in the eye. "But it's your money."

"Use it," David answered firmly. "Until I can figure out what to do. It was my decision to go on strike, so the money should help offset that decision."

"Are you sure?" Esther asked doubtfully. "Those funds were meant to help you start your career or your own family..."

"I suppose you could say I've already started a career," David responded, a bit jokingly. "Though it's been put on hold for now, and the family is still forthcoming."

"Don't even think it," Mayer warned. "As soon as I go back to work, you and your brother go back to school." He gave his son a stern look.

"Of course, Dad," David answered, looking slightly chastened but not cowed. Esther couldn't quite put her finger on it, but there was something different about his bearing. A kind of quiet confidence had taken the place of the aimlessness that had been in her son's voice when he'd spoken to her only the night before about his first day as a newsboy. Something about this strike had grounded him, had made the pieces in his mind all fit together, and this synthesis had crystallized into a determined conviction that was nothing like anything she'd ever seen in David before.

And yet, she wasn't surprised. He'd always been a thinker, and then a deliberate and methodical doer. It made sense that he would want to act on the principles that he'd been taught and shaped by for so many years. He had only lacked something to force him past his cautious and hesitant nature and into action. The newsboy strike had been the very impetus he'd needed.

Esther was suddenly taken aback, remembering her fervent prayer from the night before. Was _this_ the deliverance she'd unknowingly prayed for and felt she had been promised for David? Not deliverance from his work as a newsboy (although ironically that supplication seemed to have been granted as well, at least temporarily)...but deliverance from lack of confidence, from hesitation, from fear? She knew that David often refrained from speaking, choosing to bottle up his ideas and his emotions instead of giving voice to them. He'd always been quiet, rule-following, tentative, and safe.

But now he was being anything but that. And it had brought something to life in him. It wasn't joy. But it was purpose and determination and resolve. It sat upon his countenance and rested upon his shoulders, and he carried it well, as though he'd been preparing his whole life to carry it. Esther had always known that David wasn't ordinary. But this was the first time she'd gotten a glimpse of what that could possibly mean. It wasn't that he had suddenly become someone else - the deliberateness, the thoughtful weighing of choices and of words, the seriousness, all were still there. But the fear and hesitation that had been equally characteristic of David's way of operating had somehow been diminished to second place. And it was in this subordination that he had somehow become a braver and truer version of himself, perhaps the David he needed to be for a time such as this. Perhaps something closer to the David he was meant to be all along.

Mayer, ever the practical one, pulled Esther out of her reflection. "Well, it seems we've settled everything then," he remarked, stifling a yawn. "It's late, and we should all get to bed - especially you, David. That newsboy union won't run itself."

David nodded gratefully. "Yes, Dad. Thank you - you too, Mom. I promise, I'll do my best not to disappoint you."

"I'd say you've done a decent job of that so far," Mayer remarked, "so I won't be expecting anything less." It was the closest he would get to complimenting his son, but Esther could see that David took the affirmation for what it was.

"What your father is trying to say is that he's proud of you," she said. "We both are. What you're doing takes conviction and bravery. It's not easy."

David shook his head. "I don't _feel_ brave, Mom," he admitted. "I know I'm doing the right thing...but I'd be lying if I said I wasn't afraid."

"Well, a wise man once said, 'Courage is not the absence of fear, but the fortitude to face it,'" Mayer remarked. "A little fear can be a good thing - it keeps you from making rash decisions. But you can't let fear make your decisions for you, either." He gave David an approving nod. "You'll figure it out, son. I know you will. That being said…" he glanced at Esther, "...it really is time for all of us to get some sleep."

She nodded in agreement and was about to rise to help him to their bedroom when David got to his feet. "I'll help Dad get settled, Mom," he said, taking Mayer's arm. He gave Esther an understanding look, and she knew that he was thoughtfully giving her some time alone, sensing that she would need the space to process and reflect on the conversation that had just taken place. (He would probably carve out his own time to be alone with his thoughts once everyone had gone to bed, or perhaps early the next morning).

With a word of thanks, Esther bid David and Mayer good night, waiting until they had disappeared into the other room before going to fetch her little stub of a candle. She contemplated blowing it out - the glow of the kitchen lamp provided more than adequate lighting - but decided to let it burn instead. The hour was indeed late, and she had a full day of work ahead of her come morning...but for the moment, she was content to simply sit and ruminate on all that had been said around the table.

* * *

**A/N**: The adage Mayer quotes in this chapter is a slightly altered version of a saying that has been attributed to so many different people that I'm not sure who to credit for originally coining it. But whoever said it first was indeed very wise. :)


	14. Morning Conversations

**Disclaimer: **This is a non-commercial work of fanfiction. Anything recognizable from _Newsies_ belongs to Disney and not to me.

* * *

Chapter 14: Morning Conversations

Sadie had the distinction of being the only naturally early riser of the four Becker sisters, and while the two older girls were more or less unaffected by this characteristic (Judith being far out of reach in Boston and Lilly being of a rather placid nature to begin with), Abby did not particularly appreciate her third-oldest sister's diurnal habit of waking at what Abby considered to be a rather ungodly hour of the morning.

It wouldn't have been so bad if Sadie had just read in bed or done something quiet to pass the time. But she insisted instead on "keeping busy," which generally meant that she was bustling around the apartment, tidying up the already-immaculate sitting room, thumbing idly through the previous day's mail, working on alterations she'd brought home from the tailor's, or adding an embellishment to a new hat, humming under her breath as she worked. She didn't have a particularly good voice, and she knew it (Abby took the liberty of reminding her if ever she happened to forget), but that unfortunately didn't seem to stop her.

(Thankfully, Sadie generally avoided the kitchen, or else they would have had another kind of problem on their hands).

This morning, however, Abby was thankful that her sister was an early riser and of a generally agreeable disposition. It had turned out to be a rather taxing start to the day, as their mother had left for the train station in the wee hours of the morning, bound for Boston and for the home of Judith and her husband John. She would be staying with them for a week, and the Becker household would have to muddle through the best they could until she returned, which meant that Sadie and Abby were left in charge of Lilly's care while their father was busy attending to the needs of the tenement.

Lilly generally had fewer seizures in the morning, but this morning had turned out to be the exception. Abby watched her sisters warily from the doorway of the kitchen as Lilly pitched forward yet again, prevented from falling only by Sadie's protective hold. Thankfully, they'd made it over to the couch in time.

"Abby, I'm sorry, but I think school is out of the question for today," Sadie said apologetically. The hope had been that if Lilly's morning was seizure-free, Sadie would stay home to watch her and Abby would go to school, but if Lilly was going to have a rough time of it, both girls' presence would be necessary.

"I wasn't counting on making it," Abby responded. She and her sisters had learned long ago that plans were never set in stone. Abby glanced down at the bowl of porridge in her hands; she'd been in the kitchen cooling it down for Lilly when the first seizure had hit, but at the rate her sister was going, the porridge would probably be completely cold by the time she was done.

Abby sighed, watching as one seizure led to another, and another. Sadie's face was calmly determined, but Abby could see the strain in her eyes.

Eventually, Lilly visibly relaxed, and Sadie cautiously loosened her hold. "Let's hope that's the last one," she murmured. They waited for several minutes. When nothing happened, Sadie asked, "Are you done, Lil?" Receiving a nod of assent, she looked at Abby, who brought over the bowl of porridge and set it down on the little table that sat beside the couch.

After getting Lilly comfortably situated with her food, Abby returned to the kitchen to fetch two pieces of buttered toast. She set the larger one down in front of Sadie (figuring her older sister deserved it) before tucking into her own piece hungrily, hoping that this was as eventful as their morning was going to get.

Sadie, normally an enthusiastic partaker of breakfast, picked absently at her toast. Daydreaming wasn't at all out of character for her, but it must have been something important to distract her from her meal. She looked thoughtful and a little sad, and Abby decided that she'd certainly had enough trouble this morning without a melancholy third-oldest sister on her hands.

"Sadie, why didn't David come for tutoring yesterday?" she asked abruptly, trying to pull her sister back to the present.

"Hmm?" Sadie asked, her mind still clearly on something else. Abby repeated her question.

"He had something come up unexpectedly," Sadie answered distractedly, continuing to pick her toast into little pieces.

"Too bad you bothered asking all those questions in class," Abby remarked, secretly regretting the choice not to keep the bigger piece of toast for herself if her sister was going to shred it into oblivion anyway.

"Don't worry," Sadie reassured her. "It wasn't a total loss." She seemed to snap out of her pensiveness, adding in a more lively tone, "I've already told him he'll have to make it up to me by doing something ridiculous. I just have to think of what that something will be."

"Have him teach you to bake," Abby suggested snarkily as she rose with her empty plate and began walking towards the kitchen. "I don't think anything could be more ridiculous than that, and if he survives, he'll never back out on you again for fear of having to repeat the experience!" She dodged nimbly out of the way as her older sister threw a cushion in her direction.

"You little imp," Sadie muttered, going to fetch the pillow. Abby stuck her tongue out, then scooted quickly away as Sadie made one last-ditch effort to swat her with the cushion.

It didn't take much to pull Sadie out of the doldrums, and when Abby returned to the sitting room a few minutes later, her sister's toast had all but disappeared.

* * *

Davey found himself heading for the rooftop in the early hours of the morning. The newsboy life was going to make an early riser of him after all, he reflected. Normally, Les was the one pulling him out of bed, but these last two days, Davey had awoken to find his younger brother still asleep and the rest of the household quiet.

He'd gotten back late the night before, his feet tired from the long walk to and from Brooklyn and his mind buzzing with thoughts after a long and lively conversation with Jack. They'd covered a variety of topics - Jack, Davey noted, could get you to talk about almost anything - and to his surprise, he'd found himself opening up to the newsie leader more than he normally would with someone he'd only just met. Maybe it was the unavoidable result of them being each other's only company for several hours of walking. Maybe it was Jack's natural charisma. Or maybe Davey had underestimated himself, and he _was_ capable of making friends easily as Jack had suggested (though of all possible explanations, this one seemed the least likely).

Whatever the case, the conversation had kept Davey's mind alert and made the long walk more bearable, and when he was finally climbing the stairs to his family's apartment (after one last failed attempt to get Jack to stay overnight), he surprisingly felt almost ready to face the difficult conversation that he knew was coming.

His parents had waited up for him and were all too impatient to hear the explanation for his strange behavior. Davey had been half counting on Les to ease them into things by spilling the news of the strike, but surprisingly, his brother had heeded his instructions and hadn't said a word, which left it up to Davey to explain everything.

It hadn't gone as badly as it could have. Thankfully, he'd had ample time to gather his thoughts and sort through his reservations about the strike, so when it came time to account for himself in front of his parents, he was much more articulate than he would have been if they had questioned him before he'd had time to think things over.

The revelation that his parents had been saving up money for him - and that they were willing to let him use it to offset the loss of income that would result from the strike - had been unexpected, but Davey was grateful for it. It relieved him of the pressure to figure things out right away and assuaged a bit of the guilt that had been eating him ever since he'd realized the financial implications the strike would have on his family. He still planned on finding a way to make money, but at least this way he wouldn't have to make any overly-hasty decisions.

By the time the conversation had concluded and he'd gotten his father settled and to bed, it had been quite late, and Davey had found himself exhausted from the long walk to and from Brooklyn and from the taxing conversation that had followed. Collapsing into bed, he'd fallen asleep almost immediately, but had awoken early in the morning again with a clear head and with a need to collect his thoughts. His feet were still a bit tired, so instead of walking the neighborhood, he'd decided to make a stop at the rooftop before heading to the circulation gate.

When he arrived, he found the rooftop deserted. Settling himself in the same spot he'd retreated to on the night he'd found out about his father's accident, Davey looked out over the waking city, letting his thoughts sift and sort themselves as the sun rose in the sky.

He wasn't sure how long he'd been ruminating, but it must have been at least a good half hour or more when he heard the sound of footsteps behind him and turned to see Sadie trudging up the stairs with a basket of laundry in her hands. Catching sight of him as she stepped onto the rooftop, she smiled cordially. "Good morning, Davey." She set the basket down near one of the empty clotheslines. "I'm sorry if I'm interrupting your solitude," she apologized. "I just have to hang these towels up, but I won't be long."

"Oh, that's all right." Davey got to his feet, ducking under a few of the clotheslines and walking over to her. For some reason, he didn't feel the need to be alone with his thoughts any longer, and he found himself surprisingly open to her unexpected company. "Could you use an extra set of hands?" he asked.

She looked up at him in surprise. "You certainly don't need to do that."

"I don't mind," Davey replied, taking one of the damp towels from the basket. "It actually helps me take my mind off of things sometimes."

"Is laundry something you do often, then?" Sadie asked curiously, handing him a pair of clothespins.

Davey shrugged. "Occasionally. I learned how to help with laundry after Les was born. It was a pretty difficult birth, so my mom was laid up in bed for a while, and during that time my dad and I had to fend for ourselves." He laughed slightly at the memory, reaching for another towel. "We made a giant mess of things the first few weeks, but after a while we got the hang of it. There have been times since then where my mom's health hasn't been so good, so we just try to pitch in a little more to help when that happens, and I guess laundry was just one of those things I picked up."

Sadie made a face at him. "And I suppose you can cook, too?" she asked, sounding slightly put out.

"Well, yeah...a little. If I have to," Davey answered, wondering how he'd managed to upset her. "Why do you ask?"

Sadie sighed, plucking another towel from the basket. "This morning, I was trying to think of something ridiculous for you to do to make up for missing our tutoring session yesterday. Abby suggested that I have you teach me how to bake." She pinned the towel to the clothesline, adding dryly, "She said that the experience will certainly keep you from canceling on me ever again - if you manage to survive the ordeal."

"I'm sure you can't be _that _bad at it," Davey objected, relieved that he had not, in fact, offended her. "Younger siblings tend to exaggerate sometimes," he added. "I would know."

"That's kind of you to say, Davey..." Sadie paused, struggling a bit with a particularly thick towel, "...but unfortunately I have to admit that Abby may be right." She succeeded in securing the towel to the clothesline, then continued grimly, "I don't seem to have the patience for all of the measuring and exactness that baking requires."

"You do seem to have a commendable patience for your sister, though," Davey remarked, trying to draw her out of her mild deprecation. "Which, in the long run, is probably more important than baking."

Sadie shook her head, seemingly determined to stick to her resolve about this particular subject. "I'm sure you won't be so positive about it when you actually have to try something I've made," she said. Suddenly, her eyes lit up and she tapped her finger against her cheek as if pondering the idea further. "Now that I think of it," she mused, "maybe that _would_ actually be a more fitting consequence than Abby's initial suggestion." She glanced over at Davey, her eyes crinkling in mischief. "Perhaps I shall subject you to some of my baking soon," she said playfully. "I need the practice, and I'm sure one bite will be enough for you to learn your lesson."

Davey smiled, her ability to laugh at herself putting him at ease. "You promised me something only 'moderately ridiculous,'" he reminded her. "So as long as your baking falls within that description...I'm game."

"Famous last words," Sadie murmured, but she was smiling too.

"So," she said, taking another towel from the basket, "I know you didn't come up here to discuss my lamentable skills in the kitchen. What does the leader of the newsboy union have on his agenda for today? More rousing speeches of inspiration, perhaps?"

"Well," Davey began, "there's - " He stopped abruptly. "Wait...how did you know that?" he asked, confused. He had told her that the newsboys had gone on strike, but hadn't mentioned anything about the union or about making speeches. Unless…

"I happened to be late to school yesterday morning - incidentally, due to a batch of burnt brownies," Sadie explained. "I caught the end of your address to the newsboys, and I have to say, I was rather surprised - I didn't expect you to be such a passionate orator."

"I surprised myself too," Davey admitted. "I don't really know where it came from. I'm not usually like that."

"It seemed like the subject was important to you," Sadie observed.

"It was," Davey affirmed. There was more he could say, but he didn't want to ramble on in front of her, so he left it there. It was one thing to open up to his parents or to Jack about the strike. After all, it was something that directly concerned them. But Sadie was only conversing with him to be polite, and she had already been inconvenienced enough as it was on his account. The least he could do was not force her to listen to the many thoughts running through his head about the strike, though he felt compelled to clarify one point of understanding.

"I'm actually not the leader of the newsboys or the union," he said, wanting to be completely honest with her. "Jack's the one in charge. I just fill in here and there if there's something he needs help with. And even that's only been a few times."

Sadie looked at him curiously, and he wondered if she was going to challenge his statement, but she didn't, asking instead, "So, what do you and Jack think will happen, now that the newspaper owners know about the strike?"

_Don't ramble,_ Davey reminded himself before answering. "I'm not sure. I hope that if we're able to make a strong enough impression, they'll see that we aren't going to back down, and we'll be able to negotiate a return to the original price of papers for the newsboys. But if they try to break up the protest, it could end up being a smaller-scale version of the trolley strike, especially if the newsies from the other boroughs get involved."

"At the risk of sounding like you, Davey, that doesn't seem very safe," Sadie remarked. Her tone was lighthearted, but he could hear a note of concern in her voice. "I've read about the things that have happened to some of the trolley workers - there's been little else in the papers these last few weeks." Affixing a clothespin to the last towel in the basket, she regarded him solemnly, her eyes almost troubled.

It wasn't a look that he was used to seeing on her face, and Davey found himself hastily trying to reassure her. "There's a possibility that it could be dangerous," he admitted. "But giving in would be more detrimental in the long run." He quickly reiterated his reasons for why he felt the strike was necessary, thankful once again that he'd had to explain himself several times already and thus was not as incoherent as he could have been.

"Well, I'm sure you won't do anything rash," Sadie replied upon hearing his explanation. "And your reasoning makes perfect sense..." She trailed off, readjusting one of the clothespins on the line. "Do you think the newsboys will have trouble standing their ground if the newspaper owners threaten violence?" she asked, clearly not ready to be done with the subject.

"I'm actually more concerned about their spirits flagging if reinforcements from the other parts of town don't show up," Davey confided. It wasn't something he'd given voice to yet, but it had been on his mind ever since his conversation with Jack on the way back from Brooklyn. "The newsies are used to brawling, so I don't think the physical threat of a soaking alone will be enough to stop them, but if they think that no one's standing with them…I don't know if they'll be able to stick with it." He'd read somewhere the battle was always fought on two fronts - the physical, and the mental - and he was worried about the newsies' morale more than anything else. A show of support from the other newsboys of the city would be key - but Davey wasn't sure if they could count on it, especially if the ambiguous answer Spot had given the night before was anything to go by.

He suddenly started feeling a bit anxious.

"Enough about the strike, though," he said quickly. "How has your morning been? I mean - so far, besides the laundry." A thought suddenly dawned on him. "Wait, shouldn't you be getting to school right now?" he asked. "I didn't - I haven't made you late, have I?"

Sadie smiled, and Davey found himself relieved that he had finally managed to banish the troubled look from her face, even if he had to admit that it was his awkwardness that had done the job where his attempts at reassurance had not.

"You haven't made me late," she answered. "Abby and I aren't going to school today, actually. My mother is gone for the week visiting my sister in Boston, so Abby and I are taking care of Lilly. We were going to take turns watching her while the other went to class, but unfortunately she's had quite a few seizures this morning, so we thought it would be better if both of us stayed close by. She's resting now and Abby is keeping an eye on her, so I came up to get some of this laundry done."

Sadie gestured to the empty basket. "And it went much faster than expected, thanks to you. But now I suppose that it's my turn to beg your pardon for not being able to keep our tutoring appointment since I won't be in class today to hear the lesson."

It would have been the perfect time for a lighthearted quip, but Davey felt too sober to attempt something already a bit out of character. "You don't have to apologize for that," he said, hoping that she could sense his sincerity. "I'm sorry to hear about Lilly. Is she going to be all right?"

Sadie nodded. "It's never easy when she has days like this," she said matter-of-factly. "We can't tell if a seizure is going to be an isolated incident or if it will lead to a string of them - sometimes she can go on for an hour or more - but we've just learned to take things as they come."

"It must be hard with things being so unpredictable," Davey said sympathetically. He couldn't imagine living with the constant unease he would feel if he'd been in her shoes.

"Well, we enjoy the moments of calm when they come, and we try not to get overwhelmed by the moments of chaos," Sadie said simply. "We live one minute at a time; that's the only way any of us are able to get through the day."

She bent down to pick up the empty laundry basket. "It's like your newsboy strike," she remarked, setting the basket on her hip. "You can't know what will happen next, but all you can do is keep moving forward." She gave him a little smile. "One minute at a time, Davey," she said gently. "Just take the next step. The rest will fall into place."

It was as if she'd sensed his earlier anxiety about the strike, and Davey couldn't help wondering if maybe he wasn't as good at hiding things as he'd thought. Sadie's exhortation was oddly similar to Jack's admonishment that Davey didn't need to solve the world's problems in one night, and Davey reflected that he really must be an open book if two people whom he hardly knew could read him so easily like that.

"Anyway," Sadie adjusted the basket slightly, "I'm sure you have a busy morning ahead, so I won't keep you any longer, but I do appreciate you taking the time to help me with the laundry." She started towards the stairs. "I hope that things go better than expected today."

It was how their conversations usually ended - with her leaving before he could manage to come up with a reply. But this time, Davey was a bit quicker.

"Let me take that," he offered, holding out his hands for the basket. "I should be heading to the circulation gate anyway." She looked surprised but surrendered her light burden easily enough, and they walked together down the stairs to the third floor.

"Thank you, Davey," Sadie said, receiving the empty basket once they were in front of the Becker apartment. She set her hand on the doorknob and was about to go inside, but paused instead and turned over her shoulder to look at him. "I know it seems odd for me to be saying this to you and not the other way around," she said, the troubled look once again crossing her face, "but do be careful today. Climbing trees for fun is one thing - going up against powerful men like the newspaper owners is quite another."

"I'll be careful," Davey promised, surprised and touched by her concern. "And...thank you, too," he added. "For giving me something to do to get my mind off of things, and for listening. And for the advice."

She gave him a small smile in reply, then turned and let herself into the apartment, shutting the door quietly behind her.

Davey stood in the hallway for a moment, still trying to wrap his mind around her parting words. They were rather ordinary, and they shouldn't have surprised him - after all, _his_ very first words to her had been a statement denoting concern for her personal safety. It made sense that she would remark upon the potential danger of the strike and express some polite apprehension for his wellbeing.

So why did the thought that she might care about it please him so much?

Shaking his head, Davey turned and hurried down the stairs. He would have to think on this more at a later time, but right now, he had to collect Les and head to the circulation gate. The events of today would be critical for the strike, and he needed to keep his mind clear so that he could tackle whatever challenges the next few hours might bring...one minute at a time.

* * *

**A/N**: Many thanks to ChibiDawn23, who came up with the scenario of Davey teaching Sadie to cook as recompense for his failure to show up for tutoring, and to mgsglacier whose headcanon of Sadie not being a good singer also found its way into this chapter. :)

Thanks as always for reading, and please let me know what you thought!


	15. At the Circulation Gate

**Disclaimer: **This is a non-commercial work of fanfiction. Anything recognizable from _Newsies_ belongs to Disney and not to me.

* * *

Chapter 15: At the Circulation Gate

"Are we doing the right thing?"

Les walked slowly through the circulation gate, his plaintive question hanging in the air as the unusually-silent newsies crowded around him, their faces heavy with varying degrees of dejection.

"Of course we are!" Davey answered a bit too slowly, putting a reassuring hand on his brother's shoulder.

It was as he had feared. No reinforcements had shown up in support of the Manhattan newsies. Davey had tried to keep up an optimistic front, going along with Jack's half-hearted assurances, but in the end, he hadn't really been surprised when Brooklyn and the others had failed to make an appearance and when the resolve of the demoralized Manhattan newsies had begun to crumble shortly after that.

"Hey, you know, maybe we should just put this off for a while," Race suggested casually. "Couldn't hurt to regroup a little...maybe wait for Spot an' the rest of his sorry bummers to show up." He shrugged his shoulders.

Davey turned to face him. "No," he said firmly. "This is not a joke, Race. We cannot just put this off for…" he broke off suddenly as he saw the look on the other newsie's face. Race's tone had been lighthearted, but Davey could see the fear in his eyes. And if Race, who seemed to be one of the bravest and cockiest of them all, was afraid…

"Jack," Davey demanded, hurrying over to the newsie leader. He lowered his voice. "They're losing hope," he said tersely. "You have to step in! Tell them that we can't give up now - "

"Hey! Hey!" Jack shouted, striding quickly to the center of the distribution floor. The scattering of newsboys looked over at him half-heartedly. "We can't back down now, alright?" Jack said sternly, looking around at each one of them. "Even if no one else shows, _now_ is when we take a stand!"

"What if we just don't show up to deliver the papes?" Finch suggested nervously. A few of the other newsies murmured their agreement.

"No!" Jack insisted, a bit of desperation beginning to leak into his voice. "Then they's gonna just find someone else to take our jobs - we're a dime a dozen to them!" He shook his head. "They need to see we ain't backin' down."

There was a beat of silence. Then newsboys shook their heads, turning away. Davey looked on in dismay, shocked that Jack hadn't been able to rally them to continue. Was the lack of support really so devastating that it could completely unnerve the same boys who had so passionately demonstrated against _The World_ only the day before?

Jack suddenly shot him a beseeching look. "Davey!" His voice was pleading. "Come on - you tell them!"

Davey wasn't prepared.

"I - Jack - "

This wasn't how it was supposed to go.

He wasn't ready to be called upon to speak again. He'd expected to come and add his voice to the protest but not to lead it. He didn't think he had any more inspiration left in him; he'd used it all up on the speech that had gotten this whole business started in the first place.

Davey's mind was racing. He could sense the resolve of the newsies slipping away like water through his fingers, and he knew that he had to give them something - something to hold on to, something simple and straightforward. Big words wouldn't do it. Well-reasoned arguments wouldn't do it. He had to speak to them plainly and meet them where they were at. But he also had to figure out a way to inspire them _beyond _where they were at. And he had to do it quickly. Jack was right - like it or not, ready or not, today was the day they took their stand.

It seemed ironic that it had fallen upon the newest and most inexperienced newsie of the bunch to marshal the others, and Davey felt the weight of his inadequacy pressing down upon him, threatening to stifle the words that were coming...

But he forced back his fear. Jack had called on him to speak, hadn't he? Davey couldn't let him down. And maybe, for the oddest of reasons, he really _was_ the only one who could do this.

He knew what it felt like to stand alone, so the lack of support had dismayed but not derailed him.

He had been given wisdom and encouragement from people he trusted, so the call to inspire had surprised him, but not found him wanting.

And he had his way with words - rambling and occasionally awkward, but maybe just good enough to deliver what the dispirited newsies needed to hear in that moment.

These were his friends (hadn't Jack said so?) and his newfound brothers. Davey had a responsibility to them, an obligation to share the wisdom and truth that had been given to _him_, because in reality those things weren't meant for him alone, but for all of them. If he could only find a way to reach past the newsies' fear to touch the courage that he knew was still there...

He had to try.

So Davey began speaking. Slowly and quietly at first, then more boldly as his confidence grew. He drew upon the thoughts that had been running constantly through his head ever since his father's accident. He mined the wisdom from his parents' exhortations the night before. And he employed the simple insight of a girl he'd talked to on the rooftop only that morning, who had reminded him that things would fall into place when you took them one minute at a time

To his surprise, the newsies were actually listening. Not just listening, but slowly beginning to nod in agreement. Soon, some of them were standing alongside him, hope slowly returning to their faces. Davey felt Jack's hand on his shoulder, and he caught a smile from Crutchie as the irrepressible newsie limped over to join them, his crutch bedecked with a ragged banner boldly proclaiming "STRIKE."

Eventually, the entire group of newsies was standing side by side, drawing strength from each other's presence, their resolve renewed in response to a few simple but earnestly-delivered words. Perhaps they weren't as faint-hearted as they had appeared just moments ago. Perhaps they had only needed someone to remind them of what they were fighting for. Drawn together once again, their strength and determination had returned, and by the time the circulation bell sounded, Davey's voice wasn't the only one rising in exhortation.

"We're really doin' this?" Crutchie asked, hesitant but undaunted as the final chime of the bell died away.

"Yeah," Jack answered confidently. The determined gleam was back in his eyes as he clapped his friend on the shoulder. "Right here. Right now."

* * *

Looking back on it, there were several things about the whole incident that Davey remembered.

He remembered the tension in his shoulders and the stillness in the air as the newsboys stood facing off against Wiesel and the Delanceys.

He remembered the feeling of shock as the scabs brushed past him - one, two, three - striding purposefully over to the circulation window where they collected their papers and turned to face the striking newsies in stoic defiance.

He remembered acting on instinct, jumping quickly in front of the crowd of boys, barely managing to hold back the irate newsies from rushing at the scabs, and seeing the Delanceys out of the corner of his eye bracing themselves for a fight.

He remembered the feel of someone's eyes on him and turning to see Oscar staring directly at him, his gaze baleful and unwavering. It unnerved Davey a bit, but he didn't have time to think much about it, and eventually the Delancey brother looked away.

He remembered his heart pounding as Jack addressed the scabs and his hands clenching into fists involuntarily as the tension grew.

He remembered rushing to put a protective arm around Les as the first scab charged at Jack, then the unexpected jolt of surprise at the sound of papers being thrown to the ground.

He remembered stepping in quickly to confront the second scab and the exhilaration of having the rest of the newsies at his back as he tried to reason with the boy. He remembered the long and searching look the scab gave him before he too threw down his papers, and the instant feeling of relief that followed when the third scab was not far behind.

And he remembered the thrill of all the newsies standing united.

He remembered the panic that had filled him upon seeing Les in the grip of the Delancey brothers and the gratitude he'd felt when Jack charged at them right away, arriving seconds before Davey could. He remembered the feeling of being invincible when the rest of the newsies followed suit, falling in as reinforcements and soundly routing the outnumbered Delanceys.

He remembered the celebratory jubilation that had followed and the feeling of the biggest, widest grin spreading across his face as he posed with the newsies for the _Sun's_ photographer (Romeo had accidentally stepped on his foot as he tumbled over to the group, but Davey had barely flinched - not even the brief pain could diminish the elation he'd felt in that moment).

He remembered the sudden sound of the newsies falling silent as they found themselves confronted by an army of goons and the jarring crash of Wiesel beating his truncheon against the metal bars of the circulation gate.

Then everything had degenerated into chaos.

He didn't remember quite as clearly what had happened after that - only flashes and bursts and shouts and screams and vivid images he wished he could forget but knew he probably never would.

There were several things about the whole incident that Davey regretted.

Chief among them was not making Les stay home that morning (what had he been thinking letting his little brother accompany him to something so dangerous?).

A close second was not making Jack teach him how to properly throw a punch before the whole altercation began (the only thing he could recall from his reading was that you weren't supposed to tuck your thumb inside of your fist, but that knowledge only got him so far).

His deepest regret, however, was that he hadn't noticed Crutchie before it was too late. And the sight of the other newsie being beaten and dragged away was the one image Davey knew would stay with him forever, even if he forgot everything else about the strike.

He'd partially shut down at that point, his inherent ability to bottle up his emotions coming into play as he firmly steered Les away from the melee, watching the rest of the newsies scatter off in all directions, some of them pursued by Weasel's hired hands (Davey would never think of the man by his real name after what he'd witnessed today).

Once they were several blocks away from the distribution center and clear of any immediate danger, Davey stopped and knelt down to worriedly look his brother over. Les was complaining of pain in his left arm, and while a gentle examination seemed to indicate no broken bones, Davey knew that would be better if Les kept his arm immobilized. So they headed for home, each step taking them further and further away from the chaos that had erupted at the distribution center.

It wasn't until much later, after Les was home and safe, that Davey realized Jack had disappeared.


	16. An Unlikely Partnership

**Disclaimer: **This is a non-commercial work of fanfiction. Anything recognizable from _Newsies_ belongs to Disney and not to me.

* * *

Chapter 16: An Unlikely Partnership

"Finch!" Race snapped. "Get over here and let me take a look at that cut of yours."

"Ain't nothin' but a scratch," Finch muttered, reluctantly making his way over to Race and scowling slightly as he submitted to the other newsie's examination.

"Gonna be a lot worse than just a scratch if you don't clean it properly," Race replied. The cut wasn't large or alarmingly deep, but it was definitely dirty. He gestured to the washroom at the back of the lodging house. "Go wash it out Finchy, and let the water run over it a while, then come back so I can give you a bandage."

Grumbling a bit, Finch did as he was told, and Race called Elmer over.

"Hey, Elm! You's next."

The younger newsie looked a bit disoriented, but he got up from the bunk bed where he had been sitting and made his way unsteadily over to the table where Race had set up a makeshift medic station.

"Woah - woah!" Race jumped to his feet as Elmer wavered a bit before shakily sliding down into one of the chairs beside the table. "Take it easy, Elm. What's wrong?"

"Just feelin' a little dizzy," the other newsie mumbled. "Took a blow to the head back at the distribution center. Sniper an' Jojo had to help me back here."

"Show me where," Race commanded.

Elmer pointed to a spot on the side of his head, and Race carefully inspected the area. There was no visible wound, but that didn't mean that the injury wasn't serious. Race ground his teeth silently in frustration, wishing for Crutchie. The two of them were usually the designated medics in charge of patching up the newsies whenever a scuffle took place, but it was rare for so many of the boys to be injured at once.

And, of course, Crutchie wasn't here.

Race pushed the thought aside. He was worried about Crutchie and Jack both, but he wasn't going to stop and think about their predicaments right now. The leadership of the newsies had fallen to him, and with no one else there to assist in evaluating the other boys' physical needs, Race had to focus his attention on what was important in the moment. Making sure that everyone was patched up properly was his top priority.

Feeling a hand fall suddenly upon his shoulder, Race turned around and was about to chastise the interloper, when he saw to his surprise that it was Davey standing behind him.

"Sorry it took me so long to get back," the dark-haired boy apologized. "I had to take Les home." His eyes glanced around the room, taking in the disorder of the injured newsies clustered together in little groups. "What can I do?"

Race was relieved to see him, but he didn't let on.

"How'd you find the lodging house?" he asked instead. As far as he knew, Davey had never been there.

"I asked around." Davey came over to stand next to Race, examining Elmer with a concerned look.

"Concussion?" he asked quietly.

Race gave a terse nod. "Maybe." He glanced over his shoulder and saw that Finch was making his way back from the washroom, then gave Davey a nudge. "Can you see to Elmer here while I bandage up Finchy?"

Davey nodded, kneeling down so that he was at eye level with the younger newsie. "Hey, uh, Elmer," he began. "I don't think we've officially met before, but I'm Davey. Is it all right if I ask you some questions? I want to figure out what to do for that injury of yours."

Race listened as he carefully bandaged Finch's cut, curious to see how Elmer would respond. The younger newsie was easy-going and good-natured, but he was wary of strangers and never liked being questioned about anything, so even though Davey's approach made sense, Race wasn't sure if it would fly.

To his surprise, Elmer agreed to the request.

"Sure," he answered easily.

Davey nodded. "Are you feeling dizzy at all?" he queried.

"Yeah, a little," Elmer admitted. "Almost didn't make it over to Racer here."

Davey looked concerned, but his voice remained calm. "Okay. Any blacking out or fainting earlier?"

"Nah," Elmer started to shake his head, then stopped abruptly, wincing.

"And you haven't vomited either?" Davey questioned.

"I haven't what?" Elmer asked, confused.

"Er...thrown up?" Davey amended.

"Oh," Elmer laughed a little in comprehension. "Nah, no throwin' up."

Davey nodded encouragingly. "All right, good."

Race's attention was drawn away as he finished bandaging Finch's cut and began scanning the rest of the lodging house to see if he'd missed anyone else. Nearly all of the boys had injuries of some kind, most of which would show up as ugly bruises the next day. A few, like Finch, sported superficial cuts. Most concerning were the head injuries, though so far only Henry and Elmer seemed to have been affected. Race was thankful that he'd gotten out of the brawl with nothing worse than a black eye.

Satisfied that he'd examined everyone, Race turned his attention back to Davey, who seemed to be wrapping up his questioning.

"Well, you sure are a tough one, Elmer!" he said. "Snyder and the bulls are going to have to try a lot harder if they want to have any chance of putting you out of the game."

Elmer grinned at the older boy's praise.

"It'd probably be best for you to rest now," Davey continued, "but if you start swelling up, or if you feel pressure in your head or anything else unusual, tell Race right away, okay?" Elmer gave his assent, and Davey patted him gently on the back, then helped the younger newsie to his feet and over to his bunk, getting him settled in before coming back to Race.

"He seems all right for now," he said, lowering his voice. "He's speaking and thinking clearly, his memory's intact, and he doesn't seem to have any severe symptoms yet. But we should keep an eye on him for the next few days. Sometimes it takes a while to know for sure."

Race nodded in understanding. He already planned on sleeping lightly that night, waking up periodically to make sure the other boys were all right - Elmer wasn't the only one whose injury was slightly worrisome.

"Is there anyone else?" Davey asked, his eyes sweeping the room. Most of the newsies were lounging on their bunks, talking quietly amongst themselves.

Race shook his head. "Nah, we's good for now." He glanced at Davey curiously. "Wouldn't have pegged you as the kind who'd know anything about head injuries."

Davey shrugged. "Les actually got a bad concussion once when he was younger, so I guess that memory is kind of stuck in my mind. And I've read a few first-aid books. I figured the information might come in handy one day. I'm just glad I was able to remember what I'd read." He stuck his hands in his pockets, surveying the room once again and looking slightly troubled.

"Do you think they'll be all right?" he asked quietly, lowering his voice so that only Race could hear. "With Jack missing and Crutchie in the...in The Refuge?"

Race made a noncommittal sound. "Ain't the first time one of us has gone missing," he said shortly. From what he could tell, the newsies were subdued but not despondent. "The hard part is gonna be keepin' these bummers off the streets so they can rest up enough to be fresh for tomorrow," he added, leaving the details of exactly _what_ they'd be doing tomorrow unspecified and unspoken.

"So...maybe something to distract them, then?" Davey suggested. "To take their mind off of things?"

Race nodded. The newsies _could_ use something to lift their flagging spirits, and Race knew that if he didn't provide some kind of diversion, he'd soon have a lodging house full of antsy, ill-tempered boys on his hands. It wasn't like him to motivate with inspirational speeches, but Davey's suggestion of finding something amusing to pass the time and take the newsies' minds off of their problems was right up Race's alley.

The gambler grinned, a thought suddenly forming in his mind. Davey himself might prove to be the perfect distraction, even if he didn't know it yet, and Race was curious to test him just a bit. The older Jacobs brother seemed to be the overly-reserved type, and there was no better time to slowly start breaking him of that unfortunate characteristic than the present.

Race got to his feet. "You's a genius, Dave," he said jovially, slapping the other boy on the back. "And you's gonna be the solution to our problem, too."

A confused look crossed Davey's face, but before he could say anything, Race cupped his hands around his mouth and shouted, "Hey!"

The lodging house fell silent, all eyes turning to look at the two boys standing at the back of the room. "I just realized we got a newsie here who ain't been initiated yet!" Race continued loudly, resting his hand on Davey's shoulder. Several of the newsies whooped and hollered, and Race grinned slyly at Davey. "Whaddaya say, Dave?" he asked. "You ready to become an official member of the Manhattan Newsies' lodging house?"

Davey looked a bit uneasy, but he nodded. "I guess I'm as ready as I'll ever be," he answered. "And...if you're offering, I'm not going to say no."

"Alright fellas!" Race announced cheerfully. "We got a taker. Let's get to it." His eyes searched the room until he found the newsie he was looking for. "Sniper!" he called, jerking his thumb over his shoulder, "You go out back and fetch the skunk, and be quick! Mush," he pointed, "you bring the shavin' cream!"

"The _what_?!" Davey exclaimed, suddenly looking a little faint.

Race snort-laughed into his hand as the other newsies chortled. "We's just messin' with you Davey," Race said reassuringly. "You don't haf'ta worry. Jack put a stop to all them crazy initiation rites when he became leader. It's real simple now - all you gotta do is answer a few of our questions."

The relief on Davey's face was almost comical. "Okay…" he agreed, nervously adjusting his necktie. "Yeah...that…" He cleared his throat. "That doesn't sound too bad." Race hid a grin at the other newsie's unconvincing attempts to hide his agitation. Task Davey with rallying a group of despondent newsies and he could rise to the occasion without flinching, but subject him to even the slightest good-natured ribbing and he was already halfway to becoming a flustered wreck. It was a good thing he was being initiated under Jack's rules. And even better that Race and the boys were going to force him to mellow out a little.

"All right!" Race declared, bringing Davey over to where the newsies had formed a loose circle. "Now remember fellas, no questions about family, no questions about the past, and what a fella shares during initiation stays in the lodging house." Race glanced around the group. "Got it?" The newsies chorused their agreement, and he nodded in satisfaction. "Oh, and one more thing - make sure an' introduce yourself if you ain't met Davey yet so he can learn all of your names."

He looked at Davey. "I would make you promise to answer all of our questions honestly, Dave, but seein' as how Jack told me that you can't even listen to him _talk_ about improvin' a headline without squirmin' a little, I don't think we got anything to worry about." He patted Davey on the shoulder. "Don't look so scared, alright? We ain't gonna bite." The practice of "initiating" a new newsie with a brief question time was really meant to help the rest of the boys get to know their new bunkmate better, and to that end, most of the questions the newsies asked were practical in nature. Since Davey wouldn't be staying at the lodging house, the procedure wasn't really necessary, but Race figured that it couldn't hurt for all of them to get to know the newest member of their gang a little more.

Nodding to the group, Race indicated that the floor was now open for questions.

Mush, ever the one to inquire about others' sleeping habits, was quick off the blocks. "Early or late riser?" he asked. "Oh, and my name's Mush."

Davey looked a little relieved that the first question hadn't been too difficult. "I'm a late riser usually," he answered. "Les is normally the one who has to pull me out of bed, although these last few days I've been getting up a bit earlier."

The newsies nodded and Mush looked satisfied, so Race motioned for them to continue.

"Any hidden talents or skills?" asked Specs after introducing himself.

Davey thought for a moment. "Well, I'm not really sure if it's a talent or not, but when I read a book, or a newspaper, or anything in print, I can remember most of what I've read, even after only seeing it once. Oh…" he added, "and I used to be pretty good at marbles when I was younger."

"You oughta challenge Racer!" Jojo suggested. "He's a whiz at marbles!"

"Really?" Davey turned to Race, looking intrigued.

Race waved it off with a cocky grin. "Don't play much anymore and I ain't got a collection on hand right now, but someday if I can get a hold of some, I'd be happy to wipe the floor with you any time, Dave."

"Okay," Davey nodded, surprising Race with a grin of his own. "You're on."

The newsies began murmuring excitedly amongst themselves, no doubt starting to wager on who would win, and Race was pleased to see that his plan was working.

"All right, all right," he broke in. "Enough of that. Who's next, huh?"

"Do you like - and do you play - practical jokes?" Elmer called from his bunk bed.

Davey grimaced. "Um...no, not really - to either of those," he answered. More excited murmuring was heard all around, and Race shook his head in amusement.

"Shouldn't have said that," he said, smiling at Davey's naivete. "Now all these bummers is gonna have it out for you, especially since they knows you ain't gonna retaliate." _How'd this kid ever survive living in New York? _he wondered. _Book smarts coming out of his ears, but nothing in the way of street smarts. _

"All right, come on fellas," he urged. "Keep it movin' - next question!"

Romeo piped up. "You got a sweetheart, Davey?"

Several groans were heard, and Albert went so far as to cuff Romeo on the head. "Geez, Romeo," he groused. "Why're you always wastin' a question by askin' about that? Every _time_!"

"Hey, I didn't hear you comin' up with anything better!" Romeo shot back. "Besides, it ain't wastin' a question. I want to know."

The attention turned back to Davey, who shrugged a little. "Sorry to disappoint you," he said, "but no, I don't."

"Well, you got anyone you's sweet on, then?" Romeo asked, not to be deterred from his line of questioning.

Albert smacked the younger boy on the arm. "Ah, give it a rest, Romeo!" he grumbled. "Let someone else ask somethin' interestin' instead!"

"All right, all right, last question," Race broke in, shooting Albert and Romeo a look. He could sense that Davey was already taxed from even the brief interrogation, and Race figured that he'd pushed him far enough for one day, so he decided to cut things short. They'd have plenty of time to quiz Davey later.

"What'd ya think of Jack when you first met him?" Finch asked curiously.

Davey looked a little embarrassed. "I thought he was trying to steal my papes," he admitted. "And that he was an over-confident braggart. None of which was true, of course," he added quickly as the newsies guffawed.

"Well if that ain't a fittin' description of Jack, I don't know what is," Henry exclaimed.

"Nah, it ain't fittin,'" Race argued, "it's _better _than Jacky deserves!" He chortled, shaking his head. "Wait 'till we tell him that Davey had him pegged from the get-go."

The mood in the lodging house had noticeably improved, and Race was pleased. It almost felt like things were normal, like Crutchie wasn't missing and Jack could walk into the room at any moment, blustering and larger-than-life, grousing good-naturedly at them for having a laugh at his expense.

At least the newsies had smiles on their faces once again. Maybe Race wasn't so bad at this leader thing after all.

"All right you bummers," he said aloud. "You've had your fun. Now lay low for a while and don't cause any trouble, alright? We gotta rest up so we can seize the day tomorrow."

Chatting and laughing, the newsies drifted back to whatever they'd been doing, and Race gave Davey a shove. "See?" he said. "Nothin' to be afraid of, right?"

"Yeah," Davey agreed with a small grin. "I guess it wasn't." He glanced at Race. "Thanks for taking pity on me. I know that could have gone on a lot longer if you'd let it."

Race waved it off. "Might not be thankin' me when one of the boys decides to prank you."

"Well, at least now I'll know to be ready for it," Davey answered, though Race was pretty sure he had no idea how that knowledge was actually going to help him in the long run.

"Hey," he said briskly, turning to the other boy, "I gotta see to our visitors -" he jerked his thumb in the direction of two of the ex-scabs who were sitting quietly by themselves off in one corner of the room (Race wasn't sure where the third one had gone off to). "But thanks for comin' back to help."

"Are you sure there's nothing else I can do?" Davey asked. "I mean, I'm sure you've got it under control, but if there's anything you can think of…"

Race shook his head. "Nah - we's gonna be fine." He spat in his hand, more out of habit than anything else, then held it out to Davey. "See you tomorrow, Dave?"

Davey gave him a knowing look but gamely spat in his own hand before shaking with Race. "Tomorrow it is," he agreed. Then with a nod of farewell, he turned and left, stopping for a moment at Elmer's bunk to say a few quick words before disappearing down the stairs.

* * *

It was late in the evening by the time Race had gotten all of the boys settled in their beds. Thankfully, Henry's and Elmer's head injuries hadn't progressed into anything more serious for the time being, and both of them were sleeping peacefully, Henry curled up like a shrimp, and Elmer sprawled out with one arm hanging completely off of the bed.

Race had settled the two ex-scabs into the only bunks available - the ones normally occupied by Jack and Crutchie in the months when it got too cold to sleep on the rooftop. He'd caught uneasy looks from the rest of the newsies as he'd ushered the visitors to their places, but he ignored them. Race was too practically-minded to have the new boys sleep on the floor for some outlandish sense of sentimentality, especially not when there were two perfectly good beds available.

That didn't mean he wasn't thinking about Jack or Crutchie.

Race threw himself down on his own mattress, wishing that he could sneak outside and have a smoke but knowing that he needed to be available in case any of the boys started feeling worse. He hoped that it would be a quiet night, but he knew that he wouldn't be sleeping much, regardless.

Race rubbed his temples, feeling the faintest bit of a headache coming on. Everything had happened so quickly, and he'd been so focused on caring for the newsies' physical needs and making sure the lodging house didn't degenerate into chaos that he hadn't had much head space for anything else. He wasn't the kind to brood - at least, not usually - but he did find himself needing to sort through his thoughts that night.

Things hadn't gone the way they'd expected. Jack had pulled Race and Crutchie aside that morning at the lodging house, and they'd quickly reviewed the basic contingency plan that they'd put in place a few months ago, just as a precaution. It was mostly a list of which duties would fall to whom should Jack go missing, but, of course, all that was irrelevant now with Race being the only one left standing.

Jack had also specified that, should something happen to him, Race and Crutchie were to defer to Davey in any matters specifically involving the strike. This directive had surprised Race somewhat - Jack, while generally friendly and welcoming to newcomers, wasn't one to release authority easily, especially not a newsie he'd only known for a few days.

Of course, Davey wasn't your typical newsie.

Race shifted into a slightly more comfortable position, bunching up his pillow behind his head. Although he would never admit it, he was relieved that Davey had shown up at the lodging house. Race had assumed that, after the brawl, the Jacobs brothers would head straight for the security of their home, but Davey hadn't forgotten the newsies, and Race was grateful for that.

He hadn't been close enough to see what had happened when Crutchie had been arrested, but the other newsies had filled him in, and Race's ire burned hot against Synder and the Delanceys. Even now, the thought of his fellow newsie being beat with his own crutch made Race grind his teeth in anger.

Rolling over on his side, he stared at the wall of the lodging house, telling himself to calm down. He needed to keep a cool head as long as he was in charge of the newsies. Once Jack was back to resume his rightful responsibilities, Race could return to his preferred role as second-in-command and resident snarker and sometime-hot-head of the bunch. But for now, he had to stay calm and collected and positive to keep the newsies spirits' from flagging. It didn't come naturally to Race, but in Jack's absence, he had no choice.

_Jack, you punk,_ he thought wryly, _unless you's in the Refuge with Crutchie or bleedin' out somewhere, you'd better get your sorry bum back here real quick, or I ain't gonna hold back from soakin' you myself._

* * *

**A/N**: I just realized that this story has now exceeded 50k words - I definitely did not think that it would end up being this long, but the plot bunnies are relentless - oof. ;) Heartfelt thanks to those who have regularly kept up with reading/reviewing this - I can honestly say that your encouragement is what has motivated me to keep posting despite the busyness of life and the occasional intimidation I feel as a relatively new fanfiction writer getting over the fear of sharing the stories in my head with an audience. ;) Thanks a bunch!

FINALLY, if you like Easter Eggs (or as Miss Eliza Sparrow cleverly terms them, "Erster Eggs") there's one hidden in this chapter that's a really specific call back to "Dyin' To Get There." If you can find it, you deserve a shout out _and_ a virtual pair of new shoes with matchin' laces. :) Let me know if you spot it!


	17. The Aftermath

**Disclaimer: **This is a non-commercial work of fanfiction. Anything recognizable from _Newsies_ belongs to Disney and not to me.

* * *

Chapter 17: The Aftermath

**A/N: **Shoutout (and a virtual pair of new shoes with matchin' laces) to mgsglacier, 9mouse9, and Miss Eliza Sparrow, who found the "Dyin' to Get There" Easter egg in the last chapter. (If anyone else is curious what it was...in that story, which takes place in a modern AU, multiple mentions are made of a prank Race played on Jack and Davey during their college days involving a skunk and shaving cream. Though it's never explicitly stated _what_ that prank was, it was memorable enough for both Race and Davey to bring it up, and the plot bunnies, apparently, thought it needed a little nod here, so there you have it. This _might_ not be the last we hear of those two particular items...but I'll just leave it at that for now ;)). Oh, and a BIG thank you to everyone who left a review! Y'all are the best! :) And now, on to the next chapter!

* * *

Katherine bent over her desk in the newsroom of _The Sun_, intensely focused as she made the final changes to her article and barely acknowledging her coworkers' farewells as they bid her goodbye and left for the day.

She hid it well, but she was anxious, anxious and angry and a number of other feelings that, despite her role as a reporter, she couldn't put to words. The brawl at the distribution center had left her unsettled, and the sight of the newsies being assailed by the police and the employees of the distribution center had frightened and incensed her.

But she had channeled those emotions into her writing, returning immediately to her office, stationing herself at her desk, and aggressively revising the article she'd written the night before (she'd had to deal with the ire of a few angry editors for the chance to make changes so close to printing, but that was only a minor and temporary setback. In the end, they'd given her an hour, and she could make do with that).

So Katherine wrote as she had never written before, her concentration razor-sharp, her prose impassioned, and her hands not stopping to rest until she'd poured all of her fervid energy into her article and had returned it to her editors for any final revisions before it went to print.

On the way back to her desk, she was stopped by Thom, the photographer who had taken the newsies' picture. "I thought you might want to see how your boys will look tomorrow morning on the front page," he said, holding out a paper sheet to her with a smile.

Katherine took the print in her hands.

A surge of emotion welled up in her as she took in the sight of the newsies posing proudly for the camera. Thom's shot had captured the moment perfectly: the boys were beaming with elation and hopeful expectancy, and they looked like they could leap right off of the page. Glancing at the picture, it was difficult to imagine the darker reality: that chaos was crouching just outside of the frame, waiting to engulf the newsies only moments later.

Katherine's eyes landed on the newsboy with the crutch ("Crutchie," Jack had called him), the one who'd spoken up the day before about having a nickel. His fist was raised high in the air like the rest of the boys around him, and Katherine could just make out the word "STRIKE" on a ragged bit of cloth he'd tied to his crutch - the very same crutch that would be used to beat him before he was arrested and dragged away. She saw the newsie with glasses, who had been caught mid-cheer in the photo...but in her mind she saw his face twisted in pain as he doubled over from having the wind knocked out of him.

Katherine continued to scan the photo, her dismay deepening. There was Romeo - one of the few newsies whose names she'd learned - the flirtatious, cheerful youth who would be slapped across the face by that brute of a policeman. And there was the taller, dark-haired newsboy, the one who had warily challenged her at the deli. He was smiling brightly for the camera with no trace of worry or suspicion on his face, but moments later he would be frantically trying to dodge the forceful swings of a truncheon while simultaneously trying to keep the littlest newsboy safe.

And standing at the very center of the photo was Jack.

He was looking straight ahead, the only one in the photo not smiling, his expression one of proud defiance. There was something both protective and vulnerable in his posture, and Katherine felt herself staring at him longer than she had any of the others.

Was he safe? Had he managed to escape the attack and avoid arrest?

Katherine let out a sigh of regret. She wished that she could have done more. Once the attack on the newsboys had started, she'd quickly taken cover behind one of the wagons and had stayed out of sight.

But she had seen everything.

It had been an appalling scene to witness, and Katherine had found herself growing angrier and angrier by the minute. Her first thought, when the distribution center employees had attacked, was that she should run to find a police officer, but when one showed up on the scene and promptly struck the entreating Romeo across the face, Katherine knew that there was little that could help the newsies at that point. But as she saw them fighting and falling - _couldn't the brutes understand that these were just kids?_ \- she was already fiercely revising her article in her mind.

She couldn't prevent the blows that were falling or help the newsboys avoid arrest, but she could capture the minds of the people with her words. She could turn the city's sympathies towards the newsies and their cause, exposing her readers to just a bit of the pain and the suffering that she hadn't been able to prevent, so that they too would join the outcry against the wrongs being inflicted by the newspaper owners.

By Katherine's very own father.

The reporter grimaced. Her relationship with Joseph Pulitzer was a delicate one, and she knew that, once her article ran, she'd no doubt be facing serious repercussions. Her father was a businessman above all else, calculating and shrewd, and while he would never physically raise a hand to harm her, in this professional world where they functioned not as family but as competitors, he would not let her stand in his way.

But she would strike first and catch him off guard, and by the time he recovered enough to take action (and she had no doubt that retribution would be swift), it would be too late. The article would be out and the truth would be in plain sight. If it managed to get her the recognition and respect she hoped for as a reporter, so much the better, but if it was a career-ending move on her part, well, at least she would know that she'd gone down fighting for something worthwhile - for the big story that she'd been waiting her whole career for.

At this point, it didn't matter if she got a promotion or accolades or a desk in the editors' office. What mattered was the newsies' cause. And Katherine vowed that she would not rest until they had gotten the justice they deserved.

* * *

The rooftop, normally a haven of retreat, seemed comfortless and dismal without Crutchie.

Jack pulled himself up from the fire escape, then glanced around uneasily, suddenly feeling like a trespasser. After making sure he was alone, he crept slowly over to the corner where his brother usually slept, falling unsteadily to his knees in front of Crutchie's ragged blanket.

He didn't know what he was doing here. He didn't know why he'd come back. It must have been his instinct, his need to be near his boys, as close to them as he could, even if he couldn't bear to face them.

He couldn't bear to face them.

Jack buried his hands in the worn-out fabric of Crutchie's blanket, clenching it in his fists and clinging to it as tightly as he was clinging to his last thread of self-possession.

He'd taken off running before Crutchie's pleas for help had fully died away, because the moment the Spider had emerged from the shadows, loyalty and courage were nowhere to be found. There was only fear, fear and the desperate need for self-preservation. It had ambushed Jack, relentless and overwhelming, and then it was as if all he _could_ do was run.

It was only when he was too tired to run anymore that the shame and guilt caught up with him.

The thread of Jack's composure suddenly snapped, and a flood of tears came. He curled in on himself, burying his face in Crutchie's blanket and trying to stifle the sobs that shook his shoulders.

He was done. He was so completely _done_.

When he closed his eyes, he couldn't see Santa Fe anymore - only the dark and dirty streets of New York, haunted by the sound of Crutchie's screams. Jack wanted so desperately to run - to run and never look back - but he knew somewhere inside that even the wide open space and clean air of Santa Fe couldn't give him the freedom he longed for. He was trapped, fated to live and die here, and his dream was slipping away. Whether he stayed or ran, the guilt would always find him.

But Jack wasn't the kind to concede defeat - not even to himself - so he forced himself to stand, swiping away the tears with the back of his hand and dropping Crutchie's blanket where he'd found it before stalking over to the edge of the roof.

It was late, and the city was nearly asleep. The full moon had risen high in the sky, and Jack found himself staring up at it, wondering if the view was any different in Santa Fe.

He felt old. Old and tired beyond his seventeen years. He was tired of the early mornings and the long days and the sleepless nights. He was tired of scraping by, fighting tooth and nail for every penny. He was tired of running, tired of fighting, tired of trying - and most of all, of failing. He didn't want to see another headline ever again.

But he did want to see his boys.

He _needed _to see them, to assure himself that they were all right despite his miserable failure to keep them safe.

Jack knew that the door to the lodging house would be locked at this time of night, but the newsies generally left the window of the washroom open, and he found himself making his way down the fire escape at the back of the building, knowing that he was taking a foolish risk, but unable to rest until he'd seen for himself that his boys were safe.

As expected, the window was open, and Jack slid carefully through the space, stealthy as a cat from years of experience, then quietly made his way over to the bunk room.

The sight of the newsies asleep in their beds brought a sense of palpable relief, and Jack crept carefully down the rows of beds, mentally tallying the sleeping boys. When he saw that they were all accounted for, he let out a breath he didn't know he'd been holding. Save for Crutchie, not one of them was missing. They'd even added two more newsies to their number - probably two of the former scabs - so the lodging house bunk room was full.

He should have turned and left at that point. But something held him there, and Jack couldn't help but linger in the middle of the lodging house, taking in the familiar sights and sounds of the sleeping boys and pretending, just for a moment, that everything was all right.

He could see, even in the dark, the faint outline of Henry, who always slept curled up on his side, and noted with amusement that Romeo in the bunk above him had managed to actually keep all three of his pillows from falling out of bed on this particular night.

He heard Mush's slow and even breathing and the soft scratching sound of Buttons clawing away at his flea bites even in sleep.

He saw that Elmer, as usual, was sprawled out, his arm extending over the side of the bed at an awkward angle. If this had been any other night, Jack would have walked quietly over and repositioned the younger newsie so that he'd be more comfortable, but he couldn't risk Elmer waking up tonight, so he reluctantly resisted the urge to do so.

He heard the heavy sound of Albert's intermittent snores and the softer wheeze of Specs, whose allergies always seemed to act up at night.

And he saw that Racetrack had fallen asleep with his vest on and his cap still atop his head, which meant that the gambler had either been plagued with insomnia that night or hadn't intended to sleep at all in the first place. Neither one would have been out of character.

Jack felt another stab of guilt; this was all his fault. He should have come back to the lodging house right away, should have been there to help Race patch up the newsies and to rally the boys with some bold and blustering words and, if needed, a few well-placed cuffs on the head.

But instead, he'd snuck in under the cover of darkness, too ashamed to face them and to admit that he'd failed. And now was preparing to leave again - maybe forever.

He should have left a long time ago.

Jack turned, ready to retreat, but in his haste, he stumbled over a pair of shoes that had carelessly been tossed in the middle of the walkway.

Race jerked awake at the sound, scrambling up into a sitting position as Jack quickly ducked down behind one of the bunks. He could feel the gambler's eyes searching the room, suspicious and wary, and he willed himself not to move or to breathe.

After several moments, Race seemed to relax. He walked over to one of the bunk beds - Elmer's, Jack thought - and leaned over to check on the younger boy before walking over to Henry's bed to do the same. Having apparently satisfied himself that all was well, Race returned to his own bed and laid down again.

Jack waited - it must have been at least half an hour - until he heard the tell-tale sound of Race's breathing slow and deepen in sleep. Then he silently got to his feet and crept out of the bunk room, through the wash room, and over to the window.

Before hoisting himself through the opening, Jack paused one more time to look over his shoulder at the sleeping newsies.

Then, he turned away.

Soon, he was out the window, down the fire escape, and making his way through the dark and deserted streets, his head down and his hands shoved deep into his pockets as he left the lodging house behind.

He didn't look back again.

The newsies were better off without him, anyway.


	18. New York Royalty

**Disclaimer: **This is a non-commercial work of fanfiction. Anything recognizable from _Newsies_ belongs to Disney and not to me.

* * *

Chapter 18: New York Royalty

Davey felt the sweat dripping down his face as he and the other newsies continued their protest outside of the distribution center. The day had dawned hot and humid, and he was glad that he'd elected to forgo the necktie that morning and had worn his blue and white work shirt instead, leaving his vest unbuttoned the way the rest of the newsies did. He wondered why he hadn't thought of doing this before; it helped him blend in with the crowd, and he had to admit that he didn't miss the formality of his usual attire.

The newsies were in decently good spirits considering the drubbing they'd taken the day before. Jack still hadn't shown up, but Race and Davey (who had purposely arrived early at the lodging house that morning) had been able to rally them sufficiently to undertake another day of the strike, so they'd headed to the distribution center and had taken up their stand in front of the metal bars of the circulation gate.

Predictably, more strikebreakers had shown up to challenge the newsies, and eventually the wagons bearing stacks of the morning edition also rolled onto the scene.

The newsies were angry, nervous, and brimming with pent-up energy from the sluggish afternoon and evening they'd spent cooped up in the lodging house the day before. They were raring to brawl, and this time, Davey wasn't able to hold them back. The wagons ended up being overturned, the papers shredded beyond recognition, and the strikebreakers...well, Davey didn't really want to think about what had happened to them.

The idea of using physical force to prove a point unsettled Davey, but he had to admit that after witnessing the violence exercised against the newsies the day before, things weren't as simple in practice as they were in his mind. Where did tangible advocacy and necessary self-defense end and egregious retaliation and rioting begin? He didn't know the answer, certainly not in this situation.

The goons from the previous day's conflict were conspicuously absent, and the newsies were on their guard, so they fared better against their opponents the second time around. Only a few were injured in the scuffle, and these were patched up quickly enough by Race (who surprisingly had exercised some foresight and had brought along a makeshift first-aid kit).

Once the wagons had been overturned, the papers lay in shreddings all about the distribution center, and the strikebreakers had been successfully repelled, Race (after getting the nod from Davey) declared that they'd made their point for the day - it was time to go to Jacobi's to cool down. Sending Specs off to collect Henry and Elmer who had been ordered to stay back at the lodging house despite their protests that they were fine, Race gathered the rest of the newsies, and they set off in the direction of the deli.

Davey found himself falling into step with one of the former scabs, the one he had confronted directly only the day before. He looked fairly young, with a shock of dark hair sticking out of his newsboy cap, and he seemed to keep to himself, not having said a single word that Davey could remember since tossing his newsboy bag back at Weasel to join the strike.

"Hi there," Davey said, trying to sound as friendly and approachable as possible. "I don't think we've met before. I'm Davey."

"Tucker," the other boy answered shortly, without looking up.

A little reticent, it seemed, but maybe that was just due to shyness or discomfort in a new situation. Davey certainly knew what both of those things felt like. He forged ahead.

"So, how was your first night in the lodging house?" he asked. "And how did you sleep?"

"Unremarkable, and on my back," came the brief reply.

Davey rubbed the back of his neck, sensing that he was getting nowhere. "Okay, well...that's...that's good!" he said, telling himself not to abandon the endeavor completely. "I'm sure it takes some getting used to. I mean, even if you've lived in other lodging houses before, it's probably different every time you're with a new bunch of newsies. I haven't really been a part of this group for very long myself, but they seem like a good crowd from what I've seen so far, and I hope you'll find your experience to be the same with time..." Davey trailed off as Tucker gave him a sidelong look.

"Do you ever stop talking?" he asked bluntly.

Davey fell silent, a bit taken aback. He didn't consider himself an especially sensitive person in general, but he'd always been self-conscious about his verbosity, and to be called out on it so curtly when he'd only been trying to be friendly stung a little. But he shook it off. If nothing else, the brief "initiation" with the newsies the day before, as well as the chummy joking that had followed, had assured him that, despite his quirks, he was a part of this group. They'd invited him in, he'd accepted their invitation, and that was that. Perhaps he wouldn't be able to make friends with everybody - but the fact remained that he _had_ friends now, and that was more than enough to satisfy him.

Tucker was silent for the rest of the walk to Jacobi's, and Davey didn't try to engage him again, letting his thoughts wander instead to the events of the past twenty-four hours.

He hadn't had much time to think since the previous day's brawl. His mind had been focused on getting Les home and making sure that he was safe, then attending to the needs of the newsies and trying to support Race in whatever way he could. Once he'd been assured that things were settled at the lodging house and that there was nothing more that he could do, he'd returned to the tenement, only to find a note from Sadie saying that Margaret had stopped by to catch her up on that day's lesson, and that if Davey wanted to be filled in, he could stop by the landlord's office that night.

So, after dinner, he'd gone up to the third floor and knocked on the door, surprised again at the little rush of happiness he'd felt when Sadie answered and immediately gave him a quick once-over. Seemingly satisfied that he was all in one piece, she'd asked after Les and then had ushered him into the office where they'd spent the next hour in study, interrupted only occasionally by Abby's exclamations as she made her way through a particularly riveting book. It was a much-needed break for Davey after the intensity and the physical exertion of the day's earlier events, and he found himself feeling settled and content as he made his way back to his family's apartment after the tutoring session had been completed.

He'd slept well, woken early, and had hurried over to the lodging house with Les in tow. His brother had insisted on coming, and despite Davey's appeal to his parents to make Les stay at home, the fact was that their father needed peace and quiet at the apartment so that he could rest, and their mother was going to be at work for nearly the entire day. There was no one available to watch the younger Jacobs brother, so he ended up tagging along with Davey after all, much to the latter's dismay.

_Maybe it would be better if Les went back to school_, Davey thought to himself. He knew that Les would not be happy with the suggestion, but a disgruntled Les was preferable to an injured one, and Davey already felt guilty every time he looked at his little brother with his arm bound up in a sling. It wasn't a broken bone - thank God - but it was a sprain, and though Les was chipper enough about his "battle wound," Davey was sure it had to be hurting him at least a little.

Mentally tucking the idea away to broach with his mother at a later time, Davey's thoughts turned back to the strike. He was thankful that the second day of protesting had been more or less successful, but he wondered how long they would be able to keep up their resistance. The newsies' morale could change at the drop of a hat - yesterday had proven this both ways - and Davey felt a bit uneasy as he considered the effect that Jack's continued absence could have on the group's resolve.

_Where _was _Jack, anyway?_ he wondered. Davey had lost track of almost everyone once Crutchie had been dragged away, and the last he remembered of the newsie leader was seeing Jack take off in the opposite direction, away from the distribution center. Davey had watched him go, only half aware of the uneasy feeling settling in his stomach. He'd been focused at the time on making sure that Les was stable, but somewhere in his mind he'd sensed that not all was right with Jack, and when he'd arrived at the lodging house several hours later to check on the newsies, he almost wasn't surprised to see that Jack was not among them. He'd quietly asked one of the boys about it before approaching Race, and his suspicions had been confirmed - Jack had not returned.

It made sense to Davey why Jack would run - maybe in the panic of the moment, he'd been acting on instinct or hadn't been able to bear the sight of Crutchie being beaten and arrested (Davey himself still found even the _thought_ of it hard to stomach). He didn't fault Jack for running. But what didn't make sense to Davey was why Jack hadn't come back. The newsies needed him - more now than ever.

And the strike needed him, too. They were at a watershed moment - they'd survived the first attack and had held their ground this morning, and Davey could feel that they were just on the brink of things beginning to turn in their favor - but in order to keep the momentum going, they needed to get the rest of the city's newsies on their side, and he was fairly certain that none of the other leaders would be willing to do that without Jack leading the charge.

Three primary objectives, then: first, to keep the newsies committed to the strike, second, to find Jack, and third, to figure out a way to convince Brooklyn and the rest to show up. But how should they go about accomplishing any of those things?

_One minute at a time_, Davey reminded himself. They were making progress in the right direction - the attack from the distribution center employees and the bulls had only convinced him of that. The newsies' outcry was being heard - why else would such a quick and forceful response be employed to stop it?

He was pulled out of his musings by the group's arrival at Jacobi's Deli. Race held open the door as the newsies filed in and dropped down at several of the larger tables that sat unoccupied due to the late-afternoon lull in customers. Henry and Elmer, having just arrived with Specs, murmured their greetings to the rest of the group. They were all tired and worn out, Davey noted, the intensity of the heat and the confrontation with the strikebreakers leaving them unusually subdued. Even Mr. Jacobi's wry joking and cups of water on the house didn't seem to lift the mood.

Davey sat idly staring at the glass of water in his hands, still trying to sort out his thoughts and wondering what their next move should be. He was about to get up and walk over to Race, when a familiar voice called out cheerfully, "I _thought_ I might find you here!"

Katherine Plumber waltzed into the deli, a bright smile on her face and a newspaper in her hands. She stopped short at the sight of the listless newsies, who regarded her warily, then shook her head. "Well, _this_ is a sorry looking group," she lamented. "I was hoping for a warmer reception from the boys who just made the front page of the _New York Sun_."

_That_ got a reaction.

The newsies sprang up from their chairs, almost knocking each other over in their eagerness to view the paper Katherine held out and excitedly jabbering amongst themselves in giddy disbelief. Davey had to wait a moment for his turn to see the paper - and Romeo stepped on his foot _again_ as he pushed his way to the front - but once he was holding the copy of _The Sun_ in his hands, he felt a little giddy himself.

There they were - front page news, above the fold.

The paper was snatched out of Davey's hands before he could read any of what Katherine had written, but if the editors of _The Sun_ had deemed it fit for the front page, she must have done a good job on it. Davey's glance fell upon the reporter as she laughed and joshed with the other newsies, and suddenly he felt remorseful. He'd underestimated her, just like they all had - but he should have known better.

"Hey, hey!" Race's voice broke into Davey's thoughts. "Back off, you bummers - and get'cha fingers off of my face!" He swatted Albert's hand away from the paper. "Let a fella have his fifteen seconds of fame, will ya?"

"Ah, leave him alone, Al," Finch suggested. "He's just in shock because he got his mug in the papes and he ain't even dead yet!"

A few of the newsies chortled, and Race rolled his eyes. "Geez, Finchy," he groused, turning over his shoulder to look at the other boy. "You always gotta be a downer?" He smacked Finch on the arm with the newspaper.

"All I'm sayin' is there ain't no reason to be gettin' so excited," Finch countered. "A headline's only a headline. Maybe we's front page news today, but we's gonna be wrappin's for someone else's fish n' chips tomorrow."

Race waved him off, shaking his head. "Come on! Stow the seriosity for a moment, will ya? You's missin' the point here!" He snapped the paper open dramatically, then declared, "We's _famous_!"

"Yeah...so what?" Henry broke in, from the back of the group. Race whirled to face him, looking like the other newsie had just said something incredibly stupid.

"Don'tcha get it?" he demanded. "We's _fa-mous_." He smacked the paper with his hand, emphasizing each syllable. "We's gonna be sittin' pretty with the entire city at our feet soon, just you watch!"

Davey looked on, half incredulous and half amused as Race began extolling the virtues of fame and waxing eloquent about the luxuries it could bring. The gambler was bringing all of his exaggerative powers to bear, and as he painted a picture predicting the high life that awaited, the other newsies couldn't help but gradually join in, caught up in their own dreams of what could come from their overnight rise to greatness. Before long, the skeptical Henry had been inveigled, and Finch wasn't too far behind.

Even Davey found the enticement of Race's song and dance difficult to resist. What _would_ he do if he could have anything - anything he wanted? What kind of life would he give his family? What places would he go or things would he do? What problems would he solve - what wrongs would he right?

He caught sight of Katherine again as she stood watching the newsies' excitement with a small smile on her face. Well...there was one wrong that he didn't have to be rich or famous to make right. He owed the reporter an apology for his earlier misjudgment. Resolving to make amends at the first available opportunity, Davey tucked the thought away. Then he joined the rest of the newsies in celebrating. Finch was partially right - a headline was only a headline - but maybe a headline was all that they needed to win this thing. It certainly wasn't going to hurt. (And, truth be told, there _was_ something quite heady about seeing your picture on the front page; Davey wasn't going to fault anyone for becoming just a bit intoxicated over that).

After a whirlwind of high-spirited revelry, Race declared them all "Kings of New York" to the cheers of the jubilant newsies and the laughter of Katherine before the entire group made its way merrily out of Jacobi's. The reporter called out a goodbye as she headed down the street towards the office of _The Sun_ and the newsies set off in the opposite direction.

Davey looked both ways, hesitating only a moment before pushing down the last bit of his pride and hurrying after Katherine, catching up to her quickly with his long strides.

"Katherine," he began, "I really need to apologize to you. For something I said earlier."

She looked up at him in surprise. "Tell me your name again," she said pleasantly, "and then you can tell me what you think you need to apologize for."

Davey introduced himself and was surprised when Katherine's laugh bubbled up upon hearing his name. "So _you're_ the one Jack says is the brains behind this whole thing!" she exclaimed. "I should have guessed that you'd be the one challenging me from the beginning."

"That's actually what I need to apologize for," Davey admitted. "I had my reasons for being hesitant, but I shouldn't have said anything to imply that you weren't a real reporter. I'm sorry." He gestured to the newspaper she had tucked under her arm. "You proved me wrong."

Katherine's expression softened noticeably at his words, and Davey wondered if it was rare for her to receive such concessions in her line of work.

"Well, I appreciate and accept your apology," she said simply. "And I hope that the article will get you and the newsboys the attention your cause deserves."

"It's definitely going to do that," Davey replied. "And in the meantime, it's given us a boost we really needed. I think it's going to be a tough climb going forward, so we need all the help we can get, especially without Jack."

Katherine nodded soberly. "Do you think he got arrested?" she asked, concern evident in her voice. "I heard they took Crutchie to The Refuge."

"I'm not really sure," Davey admitted. "But if Jack doesn't show up soon, I'm going to try to find him. It could be that he's laying low for a while, but hopefully he'll come back. We need him."

"Well, bring me along when you start searching," Katherine suggested. "Two are better than one, and Pulitzer's imposed a blackout on strike news, so if I can't use my pen to help the cause, I can at least use my eyes and ears." She pulled out her pad of paper and scribbled something on it, handing it to Davey. "I'll still be at the office this week - I've got plenty of other stories to cover - but if you come by _The Sun_, there's the location of my office. Just ask the guard downstairs to show you the way."

Before Davey could answer, he heard Les' voice calling to him from down the street. "Hey, David, what's the hold up? Race and the guys are goin' back to the lodging house, and they said we could come, too!"

Katherine smiled. "Well, you'd better get going," she said.

Davey nodded in agreement. "I'll make sure to let you know when I start searching for Jack," he promised. "It'll be great to have your help." Bidding the reporter goodbye, he turned and hurried down the street to where the rest of the newsies were waiting. "Sorry," he apologized. "You didn't have to wait for me."

Race clapped him on the shoulder. "You gonna come back with us to the lodging house, Dave?" he asked. "The kid is dyin' to see what it's like, and I'll make the fellas promise not to ask you any questions today."

"_Please_?" Les pleaded, widening his eyes and giving his older brother a winning smile.

"That may work on some people, but not on me," Davey informed him dryly, letting Les pout for a moment. He didn't really want to encourage his brother's use of manipulative tactics to "make a sale," but in this case there really wasn't anything wrong with the request, so Davey found himself adding, "but if it's that important to you, Les, I guess we can stop by for a short visit...as long as we get home in time for dinner."

"Yeah!" Les pumped his fist in the air, then immediately ran over to the rest of the newsies, shouldering his way in between Buttons and Elmer as the group began walking in the direction of the lodging house.


	19. Questions and Explanations

**Disclaimer: **This is a non-commercial work of fanfiction. Anything recognizable from _Newsies_ belongs to Disney and not to me.

* * *

Chapter 19: Questions and Explanations

**A/N: **(for clarity) This chapter picks up immediately where the previous chapter left off, without a time lapse or shift in point-of-view.

* * *

Davey found himself at the back of the group of newsies with Race, who had lit his cigar and was puffing leisurely away. The boys were in high spirits, and Davey watched as they good-naturedly joked and shoved each other, occasionally engaging in a minor scuffle. Albert stole Finch's slingshot and danced away, ignoring the other newsie's demands to return his property. Romeo whistled a tune. Specs even turned a cartwheel down the street, and Jojo followed with a handspring.

"That article sure got 'em goin,'" Race remarked, as though he hadn't been the one inciting the excitement and cheering and celebrating along with the rest of them only moments ago. Davey gave him a sharp look.

"Was it a front, then?" he asked, deciding to cut to the chase. "Another distraction tactic? All that talk about being kings of New York?"

Race shrugged but didn't bother to deny it. "It was takin' advantage of an opportunity that came knockin,'" he answered, not at all ruffled by the pointed question. "You know as well as I do that we gotta keep our spirits up if we's gonna win this thing."

Davey couldn't argue with that, but he still found himself rather surprised at Race's shrewdness. His first impression of the other boy had been that of an irrepressible jokester with a devil-may-care kind of attitude, but Race had certainly shown another side of himself these last two days.

"There's one thing I don't understand," Davey continued, deciding that, since they were being candid, he might as well raise the question that had been on his mind since the celebration at the deli. He lowered his voice a bit, then asked, "How can they all be so happy when Jack is still missing and Crutchie is in the Refuge? I mean - I'm not saying that they shouldn't be happy, and I got caught up in the moment too when I saw the paper, but - it just seems a little surprising. I've only been around for a few days, and I'm really worried about Crutchie and Jack. You all have been brothers for much longer, but no one seems to be too concerned."

"Ain't our fault you's the only wet blanket around here, Dave," Race remarked glibly. "Maybe we's the normal ones and you's just extra good at worryin' - you sure that ain't a hidden talent?"

Davey gave him a look, but didn't say anything in reply, and Race took a long draw of his cigar. At first, Davey thought that perhaps he didn't intend to answer the question after all, but then the gambler blew a puff of smoke into the air and said soberly, "The boys _is_ worried about Jack and Crutchie, Davey. Don't think that they ain't. But like I told you yesterday - this ain't the first time one of us has gone missin'. If we lost sleep every time someone got soaked by the Delanceys or ended up bein' hauled off to the Refuge, we'd be a sorry bunch, probably not even able to carry the banner, let alone stick with a strike." Race looked Davey in the eye. "So we gotta celebrate when we can."

There was much in the newsie's brief explanation that had gone unsaid, Davey was sure of it. But Race didn't elaborate further, continuing to puff slowly on his cigar and stroll along as though he'd only been remarking upon the time of day or the state of the weather, and Davey sensed that it would not be a good time to push him further, so he continued along in silence as well, mulling over what Race had told him.

It was oddly similar to how Sadie had explained her family's approach to dealing with the challenges of Lilly's disability - taking things one day at a time, not letting yourself be overwhelmed by the chaos, and celebrating the victories when they came, even if those victories were small. Maybe there was something in this simple way of approaching hardship that somehow made it more bearable. Davey would have to think on that more.

"Do you have any ideas on what might have happened to Jack?" he asked aloud, wanting to get Race's opinion, especially if a search was going to be mounted soon. "Is this kind of disappearing typical for him?"

"Don't have a clue where that bummer's hidin' himself," Race replied (leaving, Davey noticed, the second question unanswered). The gambler examined his cigar then added, almost drolly, "Maybe he finally made good on all his promises and high-tailed it off to Santa Fe!"

"Santa Fe?" Davey echoed, confused. "Does he have folks there?"

Race shook his head. "Far as I know, Jacky-boy don't have folks nowhere. Santa Fe's….well, I ain't really sure what to call it, but he's always goin' on and on about how it's green and pretty out there, and how you ain't gotta sell no lousy headlines or never see the sky 'cause the buildings is always in your way. I guess you could call it his dream. He wants to move out there, leave the city behind. Always promisin' - especially when we's givin' him trouble - that he's gonna up and leave us to head out West."

"So you think...he might have actually done that?" Davey asked, a little caught off guard. It didn't seem like something Jack would do - the conversation during the long walk back from Brooklyn had been enough to ensure Davey that the newsie leader was fiercely devoted to his boys - but then again, Davey didn't know Jack nearly as well as Race did.

"Dunno," the gambler answered in response to Davey's question. His expression darkened a bit. "But what matters is that he ain't here, and when he finally shows his sorry face again, I'm gonna make sure he gets the soakin' of his life for leavin' us to do this thing alone."

The sullen threat made Davey remember his own rather weakly-delivered warning to Jack on the walk back from Brooklyn. _I mean it, Jack. If you go running off and leave me by myself to run the newsboy union, I'll make you regret it...somehow_.

"You might have to get in line behind me, Race," he joked, half-heartedly attempting to lighten his companion's mood.

The other boy gave him a wry look. "Pretty sure you couldn't soak a fly, Dave," he said, shaking his head.

But Davey saw him smile, too.

* * *

"Abby, the mail's here!" Sadie announced as she entered her family's apartment, shutting the door behind her. She hung her hat on its hook, then walked over to the sitting room where Abby was just setting out Lilly's dinner.

"And guess what?" she added, grinning. "Ju sent a letter!" Abby pounced on the missive Sadie held out. Communication from their oldest sister Judith was always a treat, and they didn't hear from her nearly often enough.

"Here," Abby handed one page of the letter to Sadie. Judith, ever the fair and thoughtful one, always wrote a separate pages for each of the sisters, and Abby, after making sure that Lilly wasn't having any trouble with her dinner, settled herself in the armchair in the corner of the room to peruse her portion.

Sadie curled up on the couch next to Lilly, murmuring a greeting to her sister and leaning against the older girl slightly before beginning to read.

_Dear Sadie,_

_I'm sorry it's been such a long time since my last letter. The boys are growing up so fast and are getting into everything; I can scarcely leave them alone for a moment without things going catawampus. I've patched more pairs of pants than I care to count, and Caleb seems to have inherited your love for climbing trees - he'll certainly be able to give his aunt some competition when he sees her next (though I certainly hope, Sadie, that you haven't been engaging too much in the scaling of precarious heights in the interim - you know how it makes me worry)._

_Mama is a great help with the boys, and John and I certainly appreciate her presence here with us, though I know it's put a strain on you and Abby. Thank you for seeing to Lil while Mama is away. I know it is a sacrifice on your part, and we are grateful. _

_I hear that you've been applying yourself rather uncharacteristically to your studies for the purpose of tutoring one of your schoolmates who, for rather unfortunate reasons, can't be in class at the present. It was a rather unselfish gesture of you, Sadie, and I applaud you for it, as I know how much you detest spending more time than necessary on your scholastic endeavors. _

_(Benevolence aside - I know you dislike that Papa and Mama gave you the middle name "Charity," but it really does suit you - I can't help but think that this must be a rather remarkable boy for you to willingly go through so much trouble on his behalf. But perhaps I'm underestimating your generous nature; correct me as you see fit, but know that you've piqued your eldest sister's curiosity). _

_We hope to visit in December if John can manage to make enough for the train and for the time off, so please make sure to save some of the holiday baking for me, and don't let Abby eat all of the chocolate that Papa puts in his office for the tenants - we both know the ill effect that too many sweets can have on her. I'm sure I'll write again before the winter comes, so broaching this subject may seem a bit premature, but I thought that it couldn't hurt to bring it to mind early this year, as our youngest sister always manages to catch us off guard. _

_I apologize, once again, for the lateness of this letter and for its brevity, but the postman will be here soon, and I've still to write Abby's page, so I'll sign off for now. John sends his love, as do Caleb and Samuel. Say hello to Lilly, give Papa a kiss for me, and assure him that Mama is well. _

_Love,_

_Judith_

Sadie re-read the letter a second time, then folded it up carefully. She glanced at the clock. There would be enough time for her to compose a reply before she had to get to dinner preparations, so she walked over to the little writing desk that stood in the corner of the sitting area and sat down, pulling a piece of stationery and a pen out of the drawer where they were kept, and thinking for just a moment before beginning her letter.

_Dear Ju,_

_No need for apologies; of course you must attend to the needs of my rascally nephews! I'm looking forward to your visit, and I will certainly challenge Caleb to a tree-climbing contest, though I hope he'll show some pity on his poor aunt, who (you'll be happy to hear) is a bit out of practice as of late as it pertains to the "scaling of precarious heights."_

_The reason for this deficiency is, in fact, the "rather remarkable boy" who shares your concerns about my harmless penchant for climbing. David is of a cautious nature in many ways, and I'm sure that my impulsiveness vexes him almost as much as it vexed you when we had the good fortune to still have you here with us. Still, I've managed to stay out of trouble for the past several weeks, so perhaps he's been a good influence - though no one can badger with as much persistence as you. _

_(In response to your observation, my only reply is that David is indeed an exceptional boy, but not for the reasons that you_ _imply. Have the papers in Boston reported anything about the newsboy strike in Manhattan? If not, I'm sure you'll hear of it soon. It fascinates me to think that one doesn't need to be well-educated or mature in years have such an impact on the world around us. But I digress. Perhaps you will find this answer unsatisfactory - if your curiosity holds, you may pester me at will when you come to visit in December - not that you've ever needed or asked for my permission to do so)._

_I will certainly save as much of the holiday baking for you as I can without looking like a complete loafer, and I'll endeavor to keep an eye on Papa's chocolate, though Abby's only gotten more adept at pilfering it over the years. Thank you for the early reminder. I'll have to be more attentive this year. _

_Give John and the boys my love, and know that we always eagerly await your letters. _

_Affectionately,_

_Sadie_

Folding up the piece of stationery, Sadie left it in the corner of the writing desk so that Abby and her father could add their own contributions before the letter was mailed. Pushing back her chair, she glanced again at the clock. Her response to Judith had taken a little longer than expected. Sadie would need to eat dinner quickly so that she could review her notes from class that day before meeting Davey for tutoring that evening. (Thankfully, it had worked out for both Becker sisters to make it to school that day, as their father had been available to care for Lilly).

Making her way over to the kitchen, Sadie began pulling leftovers out of the icebox. Her mother had prepared a small surplus of food before leaving, so the family had been eating that over the past few days, but soon the reserve would be depleted, and Sadie would need to figure out a way to whip up something edible so that her father wouldn't need to be bothered with the cooking and Abby would not have an excuse to subsist solely on whatever sugary treats she managed to buy with her pocket money.

Not for the first time, Sadie missed Judith's presence in the apartment. Her older sister was a fantastic cook, and she'd always been the one to keep things under control in their mother's absence. Having four girls around made the apartment rather full - and the sisters all got on each other's nerves at times - but Judith had always been the thoughtful and level-headed one, astute and intuitive, as adept at mediating arguments as she was at sussing out secrets, and though Sadie didn't always enjoy her oldest sister's prying - and Judith _did_ make it a point to pry - she'd even come to miss that a bit in the older girl's absence.

Of course, Judith _would_ be the one to attribute an ulterior motive to Sadie's offer to help Davey keep up with his schoolwork. Years of practice had made Sadie more than adept at side-stepping her sister's probing (if obliquely delivered) questions about boys, so this one had been easily parried, but she'd also been purposefully cryptic in her answer, not above stringing her older sister along a bit so that Sadie could have the last laugh when Judith came to visit in December. The oldest Becker sister would discover, soon enough, that the tutoring sessions were _not_ (as she'd assumed) the result of a schoolgirl's fancy for a good-looking classmate, but, in fact, the result of a charitably-motivated (if impulsively made) offer, and nothing more.

And Sadie hadn't been entirely misleading in her response. She _did_ think Davey rather remarkable, but not for the reasons that Judith supposed. The fact that he and his fellow newsboys had gone on strike to challenge the greed of the newspaper owners was impressive, and their willingness to take a stand when they had so much to lose took an admirable kind of courage. Knowing that Davey had willingly pushed past his own reserved nature and difficulty speaking in front of others to rally the newsboys and lead the union only deepened Sadie's respect. If he could overcome his shortcomings to make a difference for something that counted, what excuse did she have for sitting on her hands when confronted with a wrong that needed to be made right?

It was an intriguing idea - that even at their age they could change the whole game. Sadie hadn't seriously considered that possibility before; she'd always assumed that you pushed for reform when you'd earned the credibility and social standing to be heard. Perhaps that stipulation still applied - but it didn't follow that credibility and social standing necessarily came with a certain age or with a certain amount of money in one's coffers. In fact, now that she thought about it, how many galvanizing events in history had come at the hands of not the rich and powerful but at the (often desperate) initiative of the relatively young and poor?

She wasn't the kind to ponder such deep ideas on a regular basis, but maybe Davey really _was_ a good influence on her. It would be quite satisfying to see Judith's expression when she finally met him and realized that it was a fascinating idea and not a handsome face that had caught her sister's attention this time. Sadie was sure that the older girl would be disappointed at first, but after that, she predicted that Judith and Davey would get along famously, being both of an intelligent and thoughtful bent and sharing the role of long-suffering oldest sibling besides. If nothing else, they could mutually commiserate over how silly and impulsive Sadie was.

Glancing again at the clock, Sadie pulled herself back to the task at hand and hurriedly finished her dinner preparations. The time was slipping away, and she had a lesson to review.

* * *

**A/N:** Did you ever wonder how Davey knew about Jack's connection to Santa Fe? I'm pretty sure there aren't any lines in the play where Jack explicitly says anything to him about it early on, but when Davey finds Jack at the theater and sees the backdrop, he immediately says, "Is that a real place? That Santa Fe?" So, either 1) Jack is a _really good_ artist where the backdrop clearly screams "Santa Fe" and only "Santa Fe" (unlikely, though he _is_ a good artist) 2) Davey is a _really good_ guesser (also unlikely, though not impossible) or 3) Davey found out about Santa Fe behind the scenes either from Jack himself or from someone else (Race, in this story's interpretation). The same actually goes for Katherine, too - but you'll get to hear my explanation for that in a later chapter.

Over-analyzing the source material? Why, no - we never do that here. ;)


	20. A Voice and a Vote

**Disclaimer: **This is a non-commercial work of fanfiction. Anything recognizable from _Newsies_ belongs to Disney and not to me.

* * *

Chapter 20: A Voice and a Vote

Race drummed his fingers intermittently against the tabletop, looking vaguely troubled, and Davey almost didn't have the heart to ask him to stop the mildly distracting sound. But eventually he did, and to his surprise, Race ceased the restless movement almost immediately without a quip or a word of protest. It made Davey a bit uneasy.

The two of them were sitting at the table in the bunk room of the lodging house, Race focused on the scrap of paper he'd been scribbling numbers on and Davey resting his head in his hands, trying to massage the tension out of his temples as he waited for Race to finish his calculations.

They were several days into the strike, and the routine was beginning to wear on all of them. After another morning of protesting at the distribution center, they had returned to the lodging house, where Race and Davey had doled out the food they'd purchased the day before (a few complaints about the rather stale biscuits were heard, but the grumbling eventually died down). Race had then sent the newsboys outside to burn off their excess energy, charging Specs and Henry with the unenviable task of making sure that no one got hurt or into trouble. Then, he and Davey had made their way upstairs to the bunk room, where they'd sat down at the table and Race had asked for a moment to (of all things) _think_. He'd procured a scrap of paper and a pencil, then had hurriedly written down a series of numbers, crossing lines out at intervals, scratching his head, sitting back to drum his fingers on the table, then frowning and repeating the entire sequence all over again.

This continued on for several moments before Race stood up abruptly, tossing the paper aside and walking over to one of the bunk beds where he deftly lifted up the floorboards nearby to retrieve a battered-looking strong box.

"About to let'cha in on a little secret, Dave," he grunted, returning to the table and setting the box down with a thud. He then disappeared briefly into the washroom. Davey heard the sounds of items being moved and Race's mild cursing after a particularly loud crash, but soon the gambler re-appeared, holding a key in his hand. He unlocked the box, then opened it carefully, setting the contents on the table.

Davey peered at them curiously. There were several silver certificates and a pouch that looked like it was full of coins, as well as a tiny notebook, a gold ring, and a pair of dice. Race placed the latter two items back into the box before opening up the notebook.

"This here is the Newsie Fund," he said, indicating the small stack of certificates and the bag of coins. "Guess you could call it our cash reserve for when we's in a bind or when a big expense comes up that we wasn't expectin.' Whenever one of the boys has a little extra to spare, he adds it to the pot, an' if he needs a bigger sum than what he can scrape together on his own, he can draw from the Fund. Crutchie's usually the one to keep track of it, but we always keep the key here at the lodging house in case somethin' like this happens where he ain't here to see to it himself.

"We try not to use this unless we really haf'ta," Race continued, flipping through the book to the page where the neat lines of numbers stopped, "but a couple of the boys ain't gonna be able to sleep here tonight if we don't pay their fees. I'm gonna see if some of the older ones'll be willing to go on the roof for a few nights - that'll really help us cut our costs - but even with that, we's gonna need to do somethin' if this strike's gonna drag on like this." He glanced again at the calculations on the piece of paper and then at the numbers in the notebook, shaking his head. "I don't think Jacky would be happy with us blowin' through this money," he muttered, "but I ain't sure what else we can do."

Race paused a moment, as if considering something, then turned to look at Davey. "I know you ain't gonna like this idea," he said quietly, "but the other option would be for some of the boys to go back to sellin' - just a few of 'em, so that we could make enough to get by. I'd only send the best out so that we wouldn't need to lose so many, and the rest of us could probably still make a scene at the distribution center. Course, then we'd have to lay off on roughin' up the strikebreakers, since our own boys would be crossin' the picket line too."

Davey grimaced. Here they were, once again faced with a conundrum and two equally unappealing solutions to the problem (though at least Race hadn't suggested the obvious third option of calling off the strike altogether). Sending some of the newsies back to sell wasn't ideal, but maybe it was better than depleting their precious emergency fund, especially since there was no telling how long the strike could last. The newspaper owners had shown no signs of capitulation, and while the newsies had managed to stand their ground so far, they certainly had less to fall back on and more to lose.

Davey sighed. This business of going on strike was a lot more complicated than they'd thought.

"I suppose we'd better think of what we can sustain indefinitely," he said slowly in response to Race's question. "Even if we were to use the Newsie Fund so that we didn't have to go back to selling now, there's no telling if it would be enough to outlast the strike. I'd be more inclined to take the risk if we had any kind of sign that things were turning in our favor - but it seems like we've reached an impasse."

Race nodded his agreement. "So you's thinkin' some of us go back to work, then?" he asked.

"I guess so," Davey agreed reluctantly. "If that's what you think would be best." It didn't feel entirely right, but it seemed to be the safer of the two options.

"It's your call, Dave," Race insisted. "Jack's orders - if he goes missing, you's the final word when it comes to the strike."

Davey stared at him in astonishment. "Wait, I don't understand. Why would he...why would he say that?" He'd helped to start the strike, perhaps, but he was no more well-equipped than Race or any of the other boys to make decisions about how it should play out.

The other newsie shrugged, sitting back in his chair. "I ain't gonna pretend like I know what goes on in Jacky's head - but I woulda told him if I'd thought it was a bad idea."

It wasn't exactly a vote of confidence, but it wasn't a put-down, either.

Davey shifted uncomfortably. He wasn't sure he was ready for that responsibility. Helping Race out - being a second opinion or a second set of hands - was one thing. Being expected to make the final decision on something this big was an entirely different matter. And he really wasn't the only one who should have a say.

"What if we let the boys decide?" he suggested after a moment. Race looked at him in surprise. "They've held out for this long, and they know what's at stake now," Davey continued. "Why not give them the choice to keep striking or to go back to work?"

"Pretty sure if we do that we's gonna have a disbanded union on our hands," Race remarked dryly.

"We'll talk to them first," Davey clarified, "present the pros and cons." Seeing that the other newsie still looked unconvinced, he tried to explain himself. "It just seems like at this point we should give them a chance to ask their questions and voice their concerns...maybe let them think things through on their own. If they take more ownership of the decision, maybe they'll feel more confident in whatever choice is made going forward."

He'd been wondering about this ever since he'd seen Jack rally the newsies to go on strike. Clearly, the boys were used to following a leader and going along with what he suggested (and Jack _did_ have a knack for persuading people - Davey himself knew this from experience). But what if someone were to challenge the newsies to think for themselves a bit, to put their heads to the issue and to try to reason through the best possible solution? Certainly, there was a time and place for executive decisions, but in this case, could some good come from arriving at a collective conclusion? Would the process of coming up with an answer together be fruitful, even if the final decision ended up being the same as what he and Race would have chosen anyway? Davey wasn't sure - and he knew it was a bit of a risky move, but they had to do something at this point to get out of the rut they were in.

"I know it sounds a little crazy, Race," he admitted. "But we're going to need the newsies to be on board if we're going to continue the strike. Giving them a say in the decision could draw them together, and you said it yourself - we need to keep our morale up if we want to have a chance of outlasting the newspaper owners."

"And what if we gives the boys a say and it turns out they's not on board with the strike anymore?" Race pointed out.

"Well…" Davey trailed off. "I guess if they're not on board, then it's better to know now than later. I don't know how much longer we'd last anyway without a united front." He hoped that calling off the strike wouldn't be the decision - but again, that was a risk they'd have to take.

For a moment, Race didn't answer, still clearly conflicted. Then finally, he nodded. "Alright, Mr. 'The membership's gotta vote,'" he sighed. "I ain't sure how I feel about it, but I hear ya." Sitting up in his chair, he began putting the items on the table back into the strong box. "So we call a meetin' tonight to talk to the fellas about everything."

Davey reached over to help him. "That sounds good," he agreed. He didn't have a tutoring session planned for that evening, so he would be free to return to the lodging house. "I've got to head back home to take care of some things, but I'll come by tonight after dinner." He put his hand on Race's shoulder, standing with the other boy rose as he rose to return the box to its place beneath the floorboards.

"Hey…" he said, catching the gambler's eye, "I know it's taking a chance, letting the boys weigh in on the decision, and maybe it's not how Jack would have done things...but thanks for being willing to give it a try. If it ends up being the wrong decision, it falls on me - I'll take full responsibility."

Race shrugged his hand off. "You ain't exactly twistin' my arm to make me agree to this, Dave," he said matter-of-factly. "We's in this together." He turned away, heading towards the open space in the floor. "Now am-scray, punk," he ordered, giving Davey a dismissive wave. "Go take care of your business so you can get back here. I ain't runnin' that meetin' by myself."

Davey smiled a little. "All right, Race," he answered. "See you tonight." Receiving a grunt of acknowledgement from the other boy, he turned and headed down the stairs and out of the lodging house, shading his eyes against the sudden brightness of the afternoon sun and calling out to Les, who was playing with the other newsies a bit of a ways down the street. Once his younger brother came running over, Davey waved a farewell to the other newsies, and the Jacobs brothers set off in the direction of their tenement.

Les, true to form, chattered excitedly the entire way home, and Davey did his best to listen attentively, but his mind was already working feverishly at something he couldn't quite put his finger on. He wasn't sure what had possessed him to push for including the newsies in the decision-making process regarding the strike's continuation. It would have been easier to just settle on a course of action and implement it without soliciting what could turn out to be contrary popular opinion. But at this juncture, with morale and money quickly dwindling, getting the newsies to take ownership of the strike was pivotal, and it seemed like the best way to do that would be by giving each of them a say and a vote.

Something clicked in his mind.

Davey had to stop himself from snapping his fingers at the epiphany. _Giving every newsie a say and a vote._ That was it! That was what they had been missing. They were in desperate need of reinforcements, and so far Brooklyn and the others had failed to join the cause, but what if they were offered a chance to learn about the strike without committing to it yet, if they were invited to share their concerns and to help determine how things would progress...would they then be more willing to buy in?

There was a time and place for putting up a bold front - and Davey understood why Jack had taken this approach initially when they'd met with Spot in Brooklyn - but there was also a time and place to admit that you didn't have all the answers and that you needed help. And that was certainly the place where they found themselves at the present.

Could the concept that they were attempting to put into play at the lodging house meeting be replicated on a larger scale with all the newsies of New York? An informational meeting - no, better yet, a city-wide rally - that would allow Spot and the rest to learn about the strike and offer their opinions - maybe _that_ could be the key to unifying their forces. And if they could get the rest of the city's newsies on board...well, at that point they would be a lot harder for Pulitzer and the rest to ignore.

"David!" Les scolded, breaking forcefully into his older brother's thoughts. "Are you even listening to me?"

"Sorry, Les," Davey muttered apologetically. "Just got distracted there for a moment." He looked at the younger boy, doing his best to show that he was giving him his full and undivided attention. "Tell me again what you said just now?"

"I _said_, I need your opinion about my girl problem," Les answered.

"Your..._girl_ problem?" Davey repeated, a bit stupidly.

"You heard me," Les declared. "While you and Race were meeting, I was outside with the rest of the newsies, and a bunch of girls from school walked by. I guess they must have seen my picture in the papes, because as soon as they saw me, they were all over me like bees on honey. Some of them wanted to know if I had really gotten injured in a fight with the police, and two of them asked me straight out if they could be my girl! Seems like Race was right - fame sure has a way of making a fella popular."

"Of course," Les continued, "I couldn't choose between the two of them right then and there, so once the girls left, I asked the rest of the newsies what they thought about my little dilemma. Romeo said I should just keep both of them around, but I wasn't sure about that, because despite all his flirting, I'm not sure how much success he's _actually _had with girls. So I told him I was going to ask you." Les gave Davey a scrutinizing look. "Though...come to think of it, I'm not sure how much success you've actually had with girls, either. Anyway," he continued, "you're supposed to be the smart one. What do you think? Alice is funny, and she always has cookies at lunch, but Sally's a lot better looking, even if she _is_ a plum."

Davey grimaced. "You shouldn't be calling Sally - or anyone - a plum, Les - " he began.

"But it's true," his brother protested innocently. "She _is_ a bit slow."

"Les, that isn't nice," Davey chided. "And I really don't - "

"So, you're saying I'm better off with Alice, then?" Les interrupted.

Davey exhaled, then tried to answer as patiently as possible. "I'm _saying_ you're a little too young to be going after girls like that," he said, "whether you think they're slow or not."

Les scowled. "Were you even listening to me, David?" he asked, sounding exasperated. "I'm _not_ going after them. _They're_ the ones who've come flocking to me." He threw his hands in the air. "I can't help it if I'm irresistible!"

Davey found himself pinching the bridge of his nose. His mind wasn't made for these kinds of conversations. Fame was definitely getting to Les' head, and all of the idle time he'd had on his hands since the strike began wasn't helping. Davey was going to have to speak to his mother that night about sending his brother back to school until the strike was over - though now that Les had amassed a gaggle of overnight admirers from among his classmates, there was no telling whether or not it would prove to be an effective solution in the long run.

They reached the tenement, and Les, clearly disgruntled at his older brother's inability to provide any relevant advice, hurried up the stairs. After opening up the apartment, Davey peeked into his parents' room to check on his father, then made his way over to the kitchen table where his mother had left some money and a list of groceries she needed. He'd promised her that he would take care of picking up the items for her once he got home, so after a quick reminder to Les to stay out of trouble and to help their father should he need anything, Davey left the apartment again.

As he made his way down the street, he found himself grateful to have a moment alone as his thoughts returned almost immediately to the idea of holding a rally for the newsies. It wouldn't be an easy undertaking - they would have to find a location large enough where they could assemble everyone, somewhere out of the public eye where the cops wouldn't come after them and the newspaper owners would be unaware of their presence. They'd have to figure out how exactly they'd want to run the rally, who should speak, and how they would facilitate receiving questions and concerns. And then there was the challenge of making sure the word got out…

And Jack. They definitely needed to find Jack. His presence at the rally would be indispensable.

_Slow down_, Davey reminded himself. _One thing at a time._ He would broach the subject with Race that night after the meeting to see what the interim newsie leader thought of the idea. It was a little crazy - and pulling it off would take some doing, but Davey had a good feeling about it, and if Race didn't object, he was ready to take the idea and run with it. There _had_ to be a way to make it happen.

He would find a way.

* * *

**A/N:** I'm not sure if the concept of a "Newsie Fund" has been proposed somewhere else in the fandom, but the idea behind this - at least, as I conceive of it here - actually came from a really interesting conversation I had with a friend about something completely unrelated (but historically grounded). I don't want to put a long explanation for it here, but if you're interested, ask me about it sometime! :)


	21. Walking Away

**Disclaimer: **This is a non-commercial work of fanfiction. Anything recognizable from _Newsies_ belongs to Disney and not to me.

* * *

Chapter 21: Walking Away

**A/N:** For context, this chapter is a "missing scene" from the musical that covers an event alluded to by Jack and Davey shortly before "Watch What Happens (Reprise)." Jack references seeing the newsies returning to work "like the strike never happened," and Davey admits that he was there with the rest of them but that he ended up walking away after seeing nervousness in Wiesel's face. So this is my take on how that played out.

* * *

Before the sun had fully risen, Race was already up and alert. He'd slept fitfully the night before and had found himself in a half-awake state in the early hours of the morning, so once the first light of dawn had begun to illuminate the window of the lodging house washroom, he'd risen from his bed, resigned to the fact that he wasn't going to get any more rest until evening.

His sporadic (if persistent) bouts of insomnia had never made sense - Race wasn't the kind to mull things over at night, and he didn't consider himself a worrier (he left that to Jack, and in his absence, Davey was a more than adequate substitute), but he'd always been a light sleeper, and rest regularly eluded him, whether it was the fire sirens blaring at intervals throughout the night or something nameless and unidentifiable that kept him awake.

He'd learned how to function on little sleep, so today would be just another one of those days, but Race secretly wished that he'd been able to have a few more hours of shut-eye. Today was going to be difficult enough without having to deal with the cumulative fatigue resulting from several nights of poor sleep.

The meeting at the lodging house the evening before had gone pretty much as Race had expected. Davey had talked (a little too much, in Race's opinion) about the strike and the sticky situation in which they found themselves with the money running low. He'd presented the options for moving forward, with Race chiming in to give a breakdown of the numbers with respect to the Newsie Fund, then had thoroughly explained the pros and cons, opened the floor for discussion, and finally proceeded to put the decision to a vote.

The results had been mixed - and if the discussion that had preceded the voting was any indication, it was a difficult choice for most of the boys - but, as Race had predicted, the newsies had elected to return to work the following day, not unanimously, but by a significant margin. Davey, to his credit, had upheld the decision without flinching, but Race had seen the crestfallen look on his face when he'd left the lodging house that night to return home.

_Maybe it was just as well_, the gambler reflected. Jack was gone, Crutchie was in The Refuge, and Race was getting tired of his role as de facto leader of the newsies. It wasn't that he couldn't step up when the situation called for it, but he didn't like being forced into something he hadn't signed up for. Leading the newsies in the midst of a strike was completely different than managing the normal everyday business of the lodging house, and, while Race wanted justice just as much as the next fellow, the strike hadn't been his idea.

That didn't mean he wasn't conflicted about its abrupt and pending conclusion.

Race pulled his newsboy cap onto his head and shrugged on his vest. He wasn't sure how things would play out once the newsies all went back to work, but he figured that after a few days had passed, things would likely return to some semblance of normal. Sure, they would probably lose face with Spot and the rest of the city's newsies for backing out of the strike, and the Delanceys would definitely have some nasty insults waiting for them when they lined up that morning at the distribution center, but what was all of that to him? He wasn't the one responsible for landing the newsies in this mess.

Not for the first time, Race felt his anger flare up against Jack.

It wasn't the strike's failure that irritated him. It was the fact that Jack hadn't bothered to come back and see it through to its end. Making the wrong decision was forgivable - they'd all done it before. But skipping out just when things were getting difficult? That wasn't right. You could have your off days or times when you needed to just get away to blow off steam (Race respected Jack's need to sleep on the rooftop and let him have his space, even if that meant Race ended up being the first on call for any of the newsies sleeping in the lodging house), but staying away for days on end when you knew your family needed you…

Race silently ground his teeth in frustration.

He'd tried to assume the best at first, reasoning that Jack would come back soon, or that maybe he'd been prevented from returning because he'd been thrown into The Refuge himself. Race would have never wished that upon anyone, but at least it would have been a logical explanation for Jack's absence. When the newsie leader failed to show up after several days, however, Race had quietly sent Specs, the most reliable of the boys at the lodging house, over to The Refuge under the cover of night, tasking him with checking on Crutchie and determining whether or not Jack was with him.

Specs' report upon his return had been grim to say the least. Crutchie wasn't doing well, and Jack wasn't in the Refuge, which meant that he was purposefully avoiding a return to the lodging house. There was something else, too - Race had seen Specs' eyes flicker slightly when he'd questioned him about Jack - but Race hadn't been able to get any additional information out of the other boy, so he'd let the subject drop.

_Just hold on, Crutchie,_ he thought silently. _You gotta get through this. The boys are losin' Jack already - they ain't gonna be able to handle losin' you, too. _

Race's fingers instinctively gravitated towards his vest pocket, searching out his cigar, before he remembered that he couldn't sneak out to have a smoke right then - it was almost time to sound the morning wake-up call.

As if on cue, the town clock began to chime the hour, and Race made his way to the front of the bunk room, shaking the weariness from his shoulders and the dejection from his mind.

Another day was here.

"Hey, wake up you bummers!" he called loudly. "It's mornin' - time to get to carryin' the banner!"

* * *

Oscar Delancey had just finished unloading the last stack of papers from the wagon bearing the morning edition of _The World_ when he felt his brother elbow him in the side.

"Hey Oscar," Morris scoffed. "Get a load of this."

Oscar turned, and saw to his surprise that the Manhattan newsies were trudging through the circulation gate looking glum and despondent like a rag-tag militia after a defeat. Racetrack Higgins was at the head of the group - the only one looking even remotely defiant - and next to him walked Nineteen Papes with his little shadow tagging along beside him.

Kelly was conspicuously absent, and Oscar wondered what that meant. He hadn't managed to lay a hand on the newsie leader during the brawl at the distribution center (though the satisfaction he'd felt from beating Crutchie had helped offset that disappointment a little), but it looked like something had prevented Kelly from coming back with the boys. Maybe he was off licking his wounds somewhere and didn't have the guts to show his face. Well, no matter. Oscar would have enough fun humiliating his boys, and without their blustering, headstrong leader to protect them, they would be even more vulnerable.

Cracking his knuckles, Oscar relished the thought of finally putting the newsies in their place. Ever since the strike began, things had been unsettled at the distribution center. The daily protests outside of the circulation gate and the inability of the newspaper owners to effectively quell the uprising had made the last several days aggravating for Morris and Oscar, and their uncle Wiesel had been getting progressively more agitated as the strike had dragged on. Even though they'd managed to employ a handful of strikebreakers to distribute _The World_, circulation of the paper had been down significantly, and they were always having to find new scabs to replace the ones who either quit or were soaked by the striking newsies.

Wiesel had faced intense pressure from his superiors at _The World_ to keep order, but doing so had proved to be an impossible task. The newsies were too many in number, and even though they'd been surprised and overcome easily enough in the first confrontation, without reinforcements, Wiesel and his nephews hadn't been able to get things under control since then. The higher ups had, of course, criticized them for their incompetence, and just that morning there had been threats of layoffs if the protests weren't suppressed soon. The ultimatum had thrown Wiesel into a near panic, and, though Oscar had maintained his quiet and surly exterior, he'd been worried, too.

So the apparent surrender and return of the striking newsies was extremely serendipitous, and though Oscar would never have admitted it, he was immensely relieved to see even Higgins' hated face that morning as the group of boys drew near the circulation window.

"Well, well, look who's come crawling back," Oscar sneered once his adversaries were within earshot. "If it isn't the scum of _The_ _World_."

"Got tired of playing strike, didja?" Morris jeered.

A few baleful looks were shot in their direction, but the newsies said nothing as they formed a crooked line to purchase their papers.

"Hey, where's your leader, huh?" Morris asked, setting a stack of the morning edition down on the counter. He smiled tauntingly. "Did he run off scared and leave his _little boys_ all alone?"

None of the newsies answered, but their agitation noticeably grew.

"Guess the rumors we heard were true, then," Oscar added loudly so that even those at the back of the line could hear. "Kelly's a coward - always could talk a good game, but yellow-bellied through and through!"

"You morons _started_ those rumors!" Higgins snapped, finally provoked into responding. "Jack don't run from no fight."

Oscar glanced at his brother, smirking. "Is that so, Morris?" he asked. "That's not what I saw."

Morris shook his head. "No, that's not what I saw, either." He grinned derisively. "I might've been distracted, though. My brass knuckles and I were having a little too much fun beatin' up that crippled kid. Too bad they hauled him off so quickly - it would've been fun to see how loudly we could've made him scream."

The mention of Crutchie did it. Higgins snarled lividly and looked like he was about to rush the circulation window when Nineteen Papes, in line just behind him, quickly laid a hand on his arm. Higgins shook him off angrily, but Nineteen Papes said something quietly to him, and to Oscar's surprise, after a moment of hesitation, Higgins backed down. He then shot a dark look in Oscar and Morris' direction before stalking off to the rear of the group, cursing loudly as he went.

Nineteen Papes turned to watch him go, then he looked around at the rest of the newsies.

None of them moved. They all seemed to be silently waiting for his cue.

Oscar waited.

Wiesel and Morris waited.

The newsies waited.

Finally, Nineteen Papes stepped up to the window.

Oscar, hiding his relief, was about to level another triumphant insult in his direction, when he found the words suddenly dying in his throat as he took in the boy standing before him.

Something was different. Very different.

This wasn't the nervous outsider who had ignorantly asked about newspaper buy-backs his first day on the job. This wasn't even the cautious subordinate feeding words to Kelly or the reluctant leader who had held back the newsies from soaking the scabs. Something had happened over the course of the past several days. Nineteen Papes had changed. It was a small and subtle change, but it was there, and now that Oscar could see him up close, it was even more obvious than before. Nineteen Papes stood taller, more confident and self-assured than Oscar had ever seen him, and instead of looking down or anxiously about himself, his gaze was focused and steady. Somehow, in the span of only a few days, he'd emerged as an undisputed leader of the newsies, and the boys behind him were clearly ready to follow his lead.

Something about that made Oscar uneasy.

Nineteen Papes fished out his money and placed it on the counter.

"I'll take forty newspapers - " he began, before he broke off suddenly. He was staring straight past Oscar to where Morris and Wiesel were standing, and he seemed to be taking something in, his eyes widening a bit at first before narrowing in recognition of something Oscar could only guess at. What was he looking for? What had he found? Nineteen Papes continued his scrutiny of Morris and Wiesel for a moment longer...

And then he looked Oscar in the eye.

Something changed in his expression.

"You know what?" he said, his voice quiet and steely. "Never mind." And abruptly he swept the coins into his hand and stepped down from the circulation window, turning deliberately to walk away towards the circulation gate and out of the distribution center without looking back.

The other newsies hesitated only a moment before they wordlessly followed him, and Oscar was filled with an odd sense of deja vu as once again the distribution center was deserted in a matter of minutes, the stacks of papers left completely untouched. It was a quiet defection, nothing compared to the rowdy defiance of the newsies' first protest. But somehow, this silent, deliberate walking away unsettled Oscar even more, and when he turned to look at the faces of his brother and his uncle, he saw that they, too, were shaken.

The familiar feeling of anger began to tighten in Oscar's stomach, and he allowed it to grow even as he forcefully pushed back the fear that tried to coil its way into his mind.

_Well, this was a new development_, he thought to himself. Kelly was out of the picture - at least temporarily - but somehow in his absence, the soft new kid had grown a spine, and it appeared that he was now helping Higgins lead the band of upstart newsies.

Nineteen Papes' silent appraisal and the decisive action that followed had been unsettling, but Oscar refused to admit that he'd been bested for long. This was only a temporary inconvenience. The newsies would have to give up on their hopeless strike soon enough, and the noose was already tightening since Crutchie was out of commission and Kelly had abandoned his boys. Higgins, as evidenced from the earlier confrontation, was as hot-headed as ever, which meant that he could be easily coerced into doing something foolish, and Nineteen Papes might have won this round, but Oscar wouldn't make the mistake of underestimating him again.

The other boy _had_ to have a weakness, an Achilles' heel of some kind. Oscar just hadn't been watchful enough to figure it out yet. His little shadow - a brother, perhaps? Could that be the key? Or maybe the camaraderie that seemed to have developed between him and Higgins? Could that be exploited somehow?

The one thing that Oscar was almost sure of was that Nineteen Papes was no fighter. He'd seen enough to convince him of that during the initial brawl at the distribution center, and the fact that the other boy had not only held back the newsies from soaking the scabs that day but had also stopped Higgins from physically giving vent to his anger just moments ago seemed to be decisive evidence that he would be unlikely or unable to retaliate if faced with a soaking. So, that was something.

But it wasn't enough, because Oscar never fought with fists alone.

_Patience_, he reminded himself. It was only a matter of time. They'd broken two of the newsies' leaders already, and the volatile Higgins was one pointed insult away from snapping. Eventually, Nineteen Papes would falter, too.

And when he did, Oscar vowed that he would find a way to break him as well.

* * *

**A/N: **FINCH: (confused) Why's Oscar suddenly showin' up again in the middle of the story? RACE: (sarcastically) To prove he's still alive.

Thanks, as always, for reading this chapter! Let me know what you thought of sinister!Oscar's reappearance.


	22. Tenacity and Teasing

**Disclaimer: **This is a non-commercial work of fanfiction. Anything recognizable from _Newsies_ belongs to Disney and not to me.

* * *

Chapter 22: Tenacity and Teasing

The unspent coins jingled in Davey's pocket, and he couldn't help the smile that spread across his face. _That's what a new beginning sounds like,_ he thought to himself.

The strike was back on.

He'd walked into the distribution center that morning with the rest of the newsies, resigned to the fact that they'd been beaten and that their protest had come to an end, and when he'd set his money down on the counter in front of Oscar, he had fully intended to purchase the forty newspapers he'd requested. But then he'd seen the look on Weasel's face. Even behind the metal bars of the circulation window, the man was blinking nervously as he took in the assembled newsies, his eyes darting from one boy to the next as though he couldn't let any of them out of his sight. Davey hadn't expected it, but he had recognized the sign for what it was: Weasel was afraid.

And Oscar and Morris were, too.

And that was when Davey had realized that the battle wasn't over - not yet.

So he'd taken his money back, refusing the stack of papers and walking away from the circulation window. He hadn't expected the rest of the newsies to accompany him. He'd only done what he had to do to satisfy his own convictions. But the rest of the group had followed him - to a man - and together they had left the distribution center behind.

The exhilaration rushing through his mind was a complete reversal of the discouragement that had weighed on him ever since the meeting at the lodging house the night before, and Davey had to stop himself from cheering. He wasn't normally one to outwardly express his emotions, but under the circumstances, he was having a difficult time keeping his elation under control.

The strike was back on. And now the rally would be, too.

The rally. Davey grinned to himself, unreasonably excited that he would have a chance to run with the idea he'd been intensely ruminating on for the last several hours. He had broached the subject with Race briefly the evening before and the gambler had agreed that the rally could be a good idea, but there hadn't been much to discuss further after the newsies had voted to return to work the following morning. The choice had dispirited Davey, but he'd done his best not to let his emotions show until he'd left the lodging house to return home.

It had been a rather dismal walk back to the tenement.

Sleep had proven elusive, and Davey had tossed and turned, unable to get comfortable until he'd fallen into a fitful sleep in the early hours of the morning. His internal clock had woken him up at his usual time - just as the sun was beginning to rise - and he'd decided to meet the newsies at the lodging house instead of going straight to the distribution center. It would be out of his way, but something about walking in solidarity with them felt right on this final morning of the strike. Accordingly, he'd roused Les, and the two of them had gotten ready and hurried to the lodging house, arriving just in time to overhear a messenger from Brooklyn inform Race that Spot Conlon had been duly impressed by Manhattan's tenacity and that Jack's boys could count on Brooklyn being there to back them up at the next event.

Race, Davey noted with surprise, had kept his expression neutral, never once mentioning that the strike was nearly over. He'd simply given a curt nod to the younger boy, telling him to give Spot Manhattan's thanks, then had turned away, only raising his hand briefly to acknowledge the Jacobs brothers as they followed him up the stairs to the newsies' bunk room.

The rest of the boys were similarly laconic that morning - even the ones more generally inclined to joke and tease were quiet, and it was a sober group that filed out of the lodging house and onto the street for the walk to the distribution center. The newsies had waited silently for Race to assume his place at the head of the group, and to Davey's surprise, the gambler had motioned him forward as well. He'd hesitated a bit at first, caught off guard by the sudden formality, but the boys had made the decision for him, pushing him to the front with a force that brooked no opposition.

So, along with Race, Davey had led the newsies to the distribution center, disappointed and resigned...but now he was leading them out with his hope restored and his mind eager to get back to the task of how they could leverage this situation to finally turn things in their favor. Seeing the conspicuous fear in Weasel's eyes had convinced Davey that things weren't as hopeless as they seemed; the newsies were still the underdogs, but even so, they'd sent the powerful newspaper owners and their employees reeling. If the implications of Katherine's article played out, perhaps Goliath, against all odds, _would_ be defeated somehow. After all, the Biblical David had been little more than a boy, smaller and weaker than the others, not yet a warrior himself - an underdog if ever there was one. But he'd had righteousness on his side, and in the end, it had only taken one small stone to bring the giant down.

Silently, Davey sent up a prayer of thanks for the unexpected victory that morning. The battle wasn't over yet - the giant still stood taunting them - but the newsies hadn't given in; there was life in them yet, and Davey was going to do his very best to make sure they made the most of this second opportunity.

Recalling the mental list of priorities he'd made several days ago, he silently ran through his objectives again: they'd managed to keep the newsies committed to the strike, so that was one goal accomplished. Brooklyn had finally pledged its support - at least for the next event - so there was another task that could be checked off.

The only unfulfilled objective that remained was finding Jack.

Davey's brows furrowed in determination as he silently promised himself that he would figure out a way to make this happen, too. He wasn't willing to give up on the newsie leader yet. Looking over his shoulder at the group behind him (which had loosened up its formation once they'd put several blocks between themselves and the distribution center), Davey caught Race's eye, falling back to walk alongside the other boy.

"I gotta hand it to you, Dave," the gambler remarked drolly, his good humor seemingly restored. "No offense, but you's probably the last person I'd expect to be givin' Oscar his come-uppance the way you did back there."

Davey smiled a little, used to Race's backhanded compliments. "I think, if anything, the impression we made came more from the fact that we acted as one," he said. "I was actually surprised that they followed me - the newsies, I mean. I didn't think everyone would end up walking away."

"Well, like it or not, you's their leader now too," Race remarked. He gave Davey a sidelong grin. "Though truth be told, I ain't exactly sure what those bummers see in you."

"Probably a preferable option to the alternative," Davey countered dryly, giving the other boy a pointed look. "I'm pretty sure if it had been left up to you, we would've come to fisticuffs at the distribution center."

Race looked surprised that he'd actually been mildly insulted back, and he was positively beaming now. "Well, ain't you just full of surprises!" he chuckled, slapping Davey proudly on the back. "Guess the newsie life is finally rubbin' off on you - that comeback ain't half bad!"

Davey huffed. "I do have a sense of humor, contrary to what you might think," he stated flatly.

"Could've fooled me," Race replied, pulling his cigar out of his vest pocket with a flourish.

Davey shook his head. It would always be a losing battle with Race; no matter how much progress Davey made in sharpening his wit, the sarcastic and irrepressible jokester would always manage to get in the last word somehow.

Well, he hadn't come back here to banter, anyway.

"Joking aside…" he began, pausing for a moment as Race stopped to light his cigar, "...I wanted to talk to you about finding Jack."

The gambler's expression immediately darkened. "What about it?" he asked shortly, tossing the match to the ground and snuffing it out with his foot.

"Well, if it's all right with you, I'd like to start looking for him," Davey ventured as they began walking again. "If we're going to go through with the rally, we'll need him there. The rest of the city's newsies are going to wonder what happened if Manhattan's leader doesn't make an appearance -"

"- if they ain't already gotten wind of the rumor floatin' around that he ran on us at the first sign of trouble," Race butted in, ironically raising the same hearsay he'd hotly refuted only moments ago at the distribution center.

"Even if they have," Davey continued, refusing to be deterred, "it's better all around if Jack's there, and I don't want to give up on that possibility before I've at least tried to bring him back. If you're okay without me, I'd like to start looking today, actually - I'll take Les, too, so he won't be underfoot." He paused, glancing at Race, who was clearly unhappy with the proposition.

"I ain't sure how I feel about you gettin' suckered into a search for a newsie who clearly don't want to be found," the gambler stated bluntly, "but if you feel like you gotta do it, Dave, then I ain't gonna be the one stoppin' you." He turned his attention to his cigar, clearly finished with the conversation.

"I won't let the search drag on," Davey promised. "One day - maybe two - and then I'll quit if I haven't found him." He glanced at the clock in the town square as they passed, noting the time. "I'll head off now, but I'll come to the lodging house tomorrow morning to give you a report, and we can talk more about the rally and the strike then. Sound good?"

Race only grunted indifferently, and Davey took the noncommittal sound as permission to commence the search, so accordingly, he collected Les, and the Jacobs brothers bid farewell to the newsies before splitting off to head down the street towards the office of the _New York Sun._

The had a reporter - and then a missing newsie - to find.

* * *

A breeze stirred through the branches above Sadie's head, making the tree's leaves rustle and murmur as she leaned her head back against its trunk to take in the soothing effect of the dappling of green against the summer sky. She'd almost inadvertently broken her promise to Davey not to climb anything dangerous - save for a few of her friends, the park was deserted, and she'd wanted to get away to be alone with her thoughts for a while - but she'd remembered in time, and had reluctantly settled down at the foot of the tree instead.

She hadn't been able to focus on the lesson in class that morning - her mind was already preoccupied with other thoughts that her schoolmaster's lecture simply couldn't compete with. Thankfully, she probably wouldn't need to re-teach the lesson that day - Davey had been so busy that he hadn't had time for tutoring, and Sadie had eagerly embraced her temporary reprieve from all of the focused study she'd been doing over the past several days. She _did_ find herself generally paying better attention in class (much to the satisfaction of her schoolmaster, who had remarked dryly that if she would only apply herself the way she'd been doing recently, she could be excelling in class rather than simply skimming by), but she would probably never be academically-inclined no matter what anyone said.

Sighing, Sadie unwrapped the piece of meat pie she'd packed for lunch. Mrs. Gerlach, a friend of her mother's who also lived in the Becker tenement, had dropped by the day before with the toothsome pastry, and both she and the pie had been heartily received by all. Abby, in particular, was rather vocal in her appreciation. Miriam Becker would be returning from Boston soon, but the food she'd prepared for her husband and daughters had run out two days ago, and though Sadie had cooked a large pot of soup (the one culinary feat she could be counted on to accomplish without incident), the rest of the family was getting a little tired of eating the same dish over and over, so the arrival of the meat pie had been rather timely.

"That looks good," Margaret remarked, coming over to sit beside Sadie. "Is it mutton?"

"Beef," Sadie answered, breaking off a chunk and handing it to her friend. "The crust is ridiculously buttery and flaky. Mrs. Gerlach from our tenement made it, and she confided that everyone's always hounding her for the recipe but she never gives it out - this pie is her signature dish."

"Mmm," Margaret agreed, finishing her piece. "I can see why; that was divine." She dug into her lunch pail and pulled out a sandwich and a little canning jar. "Pickle?" she asked, unscrewing the lid and offering the jar to Sadie. "They're the ones you like, and I brought extra."

"Thanks, Megs." Sadie popped the gherkin into her mouth, then licked her fingers, an unfortunate habit that would no doubt have earned her a reprimand from her mother had she been present.

"No tree climbing for you today?" Margaret asked, unwrapping her sandwich. Sadie shook her head.

"Not today," she murmured, glancing wistfully at the canopy of green above her.

Margaret gave her a slightly concerned look. "You don't seem to be yourself," she noted. "Is everything alright?"

Sadie picked at the fabric of her skirt, noticing a tiny snag in the indigo blue cotton. She would have to get to Mr. Gorham's shop a little early that day so she could mend it before the run got any larger. "Everything's fine, Megs," she said finally, smoothing her skirt. "There's nothing calamitous or tragic that's befallen me, so I'm not in any distress worth mentioning. I was only preoccupied by one of the little tests brought on by life, the kind that aren't anything out of the ordinary but do have a way of overrunning my thoughts with surprising alacrity."

"Is your preoccupation of the kind you'd like to share?" Margaret asked, setting aside her sandwich for a moment to focus her attention on Sadie. "I'm sure that any distress you're feeling is perfectly reasonable no matter how insignificant you claim it is."

Sadie gave her a small smile of thanks but shook her head. "I appreciate the offer, Megs, truly," she said. "I think I just need some time to think right now, though I wouldn't mind the pleasure of your company, if you don't mind my inhospitable silence."

Margaret nodded in understanding. "Think as much as you'd like - I'll be quiet as a mouse," she promised, setting the open jar of pickles in between them. "And whenever you're ready to talk, you have my ear."

Not for the first time, Sadie was thankful for her friend's sensitivity. Margaret had an animated disposition and could occasionally be a tease, but she knew when her friend needed space, and rarely pressed for an explanation until Sadie was ready to give it.

Crunching absently on another pickle, Sadie let her mind wander back to the thoughts that had troubled her all morning. She hadn't been lying to Margaret when she'd said that nothing calamitous had taken place, but she nevertheless found herself unsettled and ill at ease.

Lilly had fallen that morning. It wasn't the worst fall she'd ever had - not even close - but it had shaken Sadie and Abby up badly, and by the time their father had been summoned from his office and had hurriedly made his way back to the apartment, all three girls were in rather unfortunate shape. Thankfully, Lilly seemed to have sustained no major injuries, and once she'd been moved safely to the couch, she had eventually settled into what seemed to be a restful sleep. Philip Becker had insisted on staying with her, so his younger daughters had reluctantly left for class, their walk to the schoolhouse unusually silent.

There wasn't anything they could have done, Sadie consoled herself as she reflected on the incident for probably the hundredth time that morning. They always tried to be as conscientious and attentive as possible, but sometimes you just ended up being in the wrong place at the wrong time.

Blame was never cast about whenever Lilly had a fall - everyone in the family knew that some accidents were inevitable despite their best efforts - but that never assuaged the guilt Sadie felt, or the nagging conviction that she was somehow still responsible, whenever Lilly had a fall on her watch.

At least they had been able to tend to her promptly, and now she was in good hands, receiving the most attentive of care. Sadie was grateful that her family had been able to keep Lilly at home rather than sending her to an institution; it had been an unconventional choice, and they lived with the unpredictability and occasional disruption of that choice every day, but in return they had the assurance of knowing that Lilly was safe and well-cared for. It wasn't something they would have traded for anything.

And yet, this seemingly straightforward choice made them the odd ones in their circle of acquaintance. As a child, Sadie hadn't realized for several years that her family was atypical. They didn't have many visitors over at the apartment since her father conducted business in his office, and because Lilly's condition made her rather indisposed to venturing out, most of their friends and neighbors were unaware of her presence. Eventually, though, people did find out - it wasn't a secret the Beckers kept, after all - and it seemed that everyone who found out had an opinion of some kind - an opinion which most didn't refrain from sharing.

Apparently, the choice wasn't so straightforward after all.

It had initially puzzled Sadie that keeping an unwell family member at home should cause such controversy, but as she'd gotten older and more aware, she'd started to understand that it was, in fact, a delicate matter with a myriad of factors to consider, none of which made the decision easy either way. She'd learned from her parents' example not to fault anyone who had chosen to institutionalize a disabled family member, but she wondered if there could be a way to make things easier for those who wanted to take a different approach. Maybe if more support was available for these families, the endeavor wouldn't feel so daunting...or so isolating.

"Megs," Sadie said suddenly, breaking the silence. "Do you ever wish you could just speed up time?"

Her friend gave her an odd look. "It's not a thought I've had lately - but I take it you wish you could?"

Sadie shrugged. "I'm not sure. I just can't help but think that it might be nice to live at a point in history where someone's figured out the answers to all of the perplexing problems we're struggling through right now."

"That's a rather futuristic sentiment for someone who generally lives in the moment," Margaret observed, sounding a little surprised. "What brought this on?"

Sadie shrugged. "Just thinking…"

"About what you'd do to solve the perplexing problems of our time?" Margaret pressed. "Or about how you plan to approach avoiding them until someone else does the job, since you can't wish yourself into the future?"

"I'd like to say the former," Sadie answered, "as it would make me sound quite noble. But I must admit that my thoughts tended more towards the latter." She smiled at her friend. "I suppose that makes me a bit of a loafer, doesn't it?"

"A bit," Margaret agreed, crumpling up the paper wrapping from her already-consumed sandwich.

"Anyway," Sadie said lightly as she too tidied up the remains of her lunch, "I really don't think I'm the kind of person who should be attempting any sort of problem solving on that large of a scale. If I can't manage to pull off a brownie recipe or pay attention in class, I doubt very much that I'd be a good candidate for any kind of world-changing, especially when there are others more well-suited for the job."

"Others like a certain classmate of ours, perhaps?" Margaret asked pointedly, raising an eyebrow.

Sadie gave her mildly irritated look, displeased at this sudden turn in conversation. "I can't imagine whom you mean," she replied as she brushed a wayward leaf off of her skirt.

"Really?" Margaret closed up her jar of pickles. "I would have thought you'd be well-acquainted with all of the world-changing - or perhaps I should say, _World_ changing - that David's been up to lately."

"Is that what he's been doing?" Sadie asked indifferently, refusing to acknowledge the pun or the good-natured insinuation. "I hadn't noticed."

"You've haven't read the papers?" Margaret asked in disbelief.

"It's been rather difficult to get a paper lately," Sadie responded, "seeing as the newsboys are on…" she trailed off, realizing her blunder.

"Hm," Margaret gave her a smug look. "So you _do_ know about the strike. And I'm willing to bet you knew that David got his picture on the front page of _The Sun_, too."

"It wasn't just him," Sadie pointed out, unsure of why she felt the need to clarify this point. "The rest of the newsboys were featured as well."

Margaret only smirked.

Sadie crossed her arms. "I really don't understand why you deem it necessary to bring Davey up so much, Megs," she said, giving her friend a miffed look. "Last I checked, you'd already set your cap at someone."

"You know very well that's not why I'm doing it," Margaret replied, ignoring Sadie's attempt to deflect her. "I'm looking out for _you._ I know you don't need any help catching someone's eye and that you're uniformly charming to everyone that you meet, but I've never seen you be willing to set aside your aversion for schoolwork in order to help someone out with their studies."

"I _told_ you, Megs - it was an impulsively-made decision," Sadie said firmly. "And I've since regretted it several times over - "

"But seeing that you're stuck following through with it," her friend countered, "haven't you thought about how you could possibly leverage all of this time you've been spending with David in your favor?"

Sadie gave her a frosty look. "I confess I haven't."

"Well, why ever not?" the other girl asked, managing to sound both frank and teasing at the same time.

"Margaret, I really can't imagine what you mean."

"I _mean_," Margaret grinned, "just think of all the loafing you could do with a clean conscience if you had a sweetheart who was handling all of the world-changing for you!"

"You're _insufferable_!" Sadie exclaimed, tossing the crumpled-up wrapper from her meat pie at Margaret who cried out in surprise.

"Now I've got crumbs in my hair, Sadie!" she protested, brushing at her curls in dismay. "Whatever possessed you to do that?"

Sadie stood up, satisfied at having finally derailed the conversation. "You had it coming, Megs," she said smugly. "And I'm sure the extra adornment will do much to recommend you to James when he sees you in class."

Margaret scowled darkly. "You'll pay for that, Sadie," she declared, getting to her feet.

"Another day, Megs!" Sadie grabbed her lunch pail and smiled impudently at her friend. "We'd better hurry back, or we'll be late!" And with a spring in her step, she set off in the direction of the schoolhouse before the other girl could answer.


	23. Persuasion I

**Disclaimer: **This is a non-commercial work of fanfiction. Anything recognizable from _Newsies_ belongs to Disney and not to me.

* * *

Chapter 23: Persuasion I

The paint wasn't cooperating.

Jack scowled darkly at his artist's palette, setting it down on the table next to him with a little more force than necessary. The backdrop was mostly finished - he only needed to touch up a few spots - but something about it wasn't quite right, and frustratingly enough, the more he painted, the more dissatisfied he became.

He needed a break.

Wiping his hands on his apron, Jack found himself reluctantly pulling a piece of paper from his pocket. He'd only had the letter in his possession for a few days, but the paper was already worn thin from countless readings. His eyes immediately went to the top of the page where Crutchie's sprawling handwriting began.

_Dear Jack,_

_Greetings from the Refuge - _

Abruptly, Jack folded up the paper and shoved it back into his pocket. He practically had the letter memorized anyway - it had been running through his head over and over ever since he'd received it. He didn't even have to look at the page to know what came next.

The fact that Crutchie had even _written_ to Jack spoke volumes. And the fact that the letter had made its way from the Refuge into Jack's hands was nothing short of a miracle.

His brother knew him too well, he supposed. Crutchie had rightly guessed that if Jack wasn't at the lodging house, he'd be hiding out at Irving Hall. The newsies knew that Jack made visits there often enough (usually when he was busy working on a project for Miss Medda), but Crutchie was probably the only one who knew that Irving Hall occasionally served as Jack's second home when things got to be too much and he needed to get away...so it made sense that Crutchie would send Specs there with the letter if he'd found out that Jack had not returned to the lodging house.

Accordingly, Specs had shown up at the theater, surprising Jack, who had quickly slunk off into the shadows before the other newsie could see him. Out of sight, Jack had watched as Specs rapped on the door of the theater, quietly first, then a bit louder, until Miss Medda heard him and bustled over to answer. Their conversation had been too quiet for Jack to overhear (he'd sworn Miss Medda to secrecy about his whereabouts, and she'd reluctantly agreed, so he wasn't worried about his presence being revealed, but he wished that he could hear what Specs had to say). Was the newsie acting on his own initiative, or had one of the other boys sent him to look for Jack? The latter seemed like something Race would do after several days of prolonged absence, and Jack had tensed, wondering if Specs would insist on coming inside to search the theater.

But instead, he'd only handed a folded-up piece of paper to Miss Medda, then had tipped his cap respectfully and taken his leave. The woman had walked slowly back to the stage, and Jack had seen the troubled look in her eyes as she'd silently handed him the letter before leaving him to peruse it in solitude. (She'd somehow intuitively understood his need for space, and for that he was grateful).

So Jack had warily opened up the letter, half-expecting it to be a strongly-worded ultimatum from Race or an anxious petition from Davey to return to the lodging house. It was only when he recognized the familiar handwriting at the top of the page that the pieces all fit together.

And his composure fell apart.

At first, he hadn't been able to get past the first few lines. He'd laid the letter down, his hands shaking, and had walked a few feet away, trying desperately to calm himself, afraid to read on but equally afraid to let the letter out of his sight. He'd stood there for a moment, plagued by indecision, then had walked back to the letter, snatched it up again, and forced himself to read a few more sentences before he had to look away.

Time had passed - one day, maybe two or three? - since then. He wasn't keeping track of things like the sunrise and sunset - morning and evening made no difference to him - but he'd read the letter through obsessively, probably a hundred times or more. The dread had lessened now that he knew what the message revealed, but if anything, the guilt and sadness and anger had intensified, and Jack had found himself emotionally losing himself in his painting, the only thing keeping him sane amidst the anguish he was feeling inside.

It was a good thing Miss Medda had requested several backdrops.

Sighing, Jack turned his attention back to his most recent project. He couldn't afford to waste time now. Miss Medda would be coming by at any moment to see the finished product, and she'd promised to pay him, too, though Jack had insisted that it wasn't necessary, especially since she'd been so kind as to let him stay at the theater the past several days. But she'd insisted, and he'd given in, because a little extra money in his pocket would help to offset his train ticket to...wherever he was going next. He couldn't stay in Manhattan - Crutchie's letter (and Jack's failed attempt to visit him at the Refuge) had only served to remind him of how deep his failure had been - and if the other newsies had been able to function this long without Jack, they would be more than fine in his absence.

Wearily, Jack retrieved his paintbrush and palette, then walked over to the backdrop and hunkered down next to the part of the landscape where the mauve and lilac-shaded mountains disappeared into their own reflection on the water. He began carefully dabbing at the canvas, and this time, the paint cooperated.

_Just a few final touches_, Jack thought to himself as he worked...and then it would be time for him to disappear as well.

* * *

Davey wracked his brain, trying to remember which one of the passageways at the back of the theater lead to the auditorium. He hadn't returned to Irving Hall since the day Jack had led him and Les there seeking sanctuary from the pursuing Snyder, and Davey's memory of navigating the back of house labyrinth was fuzzy to say the least.

He was actually surprised he'd even made it this far. The entrance to the theater had been locked, but he'd located a rear door easily enough and was surprised to find that it was actually slightly ajar. He'd slipped inside, closing the door behind him a little guiltily, then had cautiously made his way up a flight of stairs which led to a long hallway that branched out in all directions.

He'd accidentally ended up in the basement at first but quickly retraced his steps, bypassing a row of dressing rooms and wandering down several more hallways until he saw a flight of stairs that looked vaguely familiar. The stairs landed him on a catwalk above the stage, and just as Davey was beginning to finally get his bearings, he heard the sound of a familiar voice.

"Does it matter where I'm goin'? I just gotta get out of here, Miss Medda - I shoulda left a long time ago."

_Jack!_

There was no doubt in his mind that it was the newsie leader who was speaking. Davey hurried towards the voice. And sure enough, there was Jack, down on the stage exchanging a few parting words with Miss Medda as she patted him on the shoulder before taking her leave.

Davey let out a sigh of relief.

Jack heard the sound and glanced up sharply, his eyes widening in disbelief. "Davey?" he gaped. "What are you doin' here?"

"What do you think?" Davey retorted, frustration following quickly on the heels of his relief. Making his way down to the stage, he hurried over to the other boy. "We've been looking everywhere for you, Jack!" he exclaimed. "It's been over a week - why didn't you come back to the lodging house?"

Jack's expression immediately became defensive. "You got at least half a brain in the head of yours, right Davey?" he snapped. "Well _use it_! Why do ya think I didn't come back?"

Davey stared at him in disbelief. "Honestly, Jack, I have no idea," he muttered. Did the other boy have an inkling of what he'd put them through in his absence? Did he even _care_?

The newsie leader only scowled in reply, then bent down to examine his painting supplies, and with herculean effort, Davey resisted the urge to give further vent to his anger. Scolding Jack wasn't going to help - he was clearly out of sorts, and reprimanding him would only make matters worse.

Glancing around the stage, Davey's eyes were drawn to the giant backdrop Jack had been painting, and in spite of his irritation, he found himself once again amazed at the other boy's talent. This time, it was not a forest scene that had been rendered but a sweeping view of the mountains under a gorgeously vibrant sky - a sunrise? A sunset? Had Jack painted the dawning of a hopeful new day, or the melancholy bittersweetness of its passing? Davey couldn't tell.

"Hey, you've really outdone yourself with this one," he said, trying to lighten the mood as he gestured to the backdrop. "I'd almost be willing to give up life as a city boy if I could see this every day." He gave Jack a careful look. "Is this a real place, Jack?" he asked. "Santa Fe, maybe?"

Jack only grunted in response.

_Okay...not in the mood to talk about the painting. _

Davey rubbed the back of his neck. He wished belatedly that he had waited for Les and Katherine before rushing to the theater. They'd been searching for Jack all morning, and after several hours of fruitless investigation, Les had suggested looking at Irving Hall. It was a brilliant idea, and Davey had wanted to set off for the theater right then and there, but Les had protested that he was tired and hungry, and it really was almost lunch time, so Katherine had offered to take Les to Jacobi's for a break and a sandwich while Davey continued the search. The plan was that after a brief respite, Katherine and Les would join him at the theater, where hopefully Jack would also be waiting, having been convinced to rejoin the cause and resume his rightful place as leader of the newsies.

Well, Jack had been found, but the successful convincing was yet to be accomplished. And if Davey had overheard the conversation with Miss Medda correctly, Jack was actually thinking of leaving town soon (though it hadn't sounded like he had a clue as to where he would be heading), so someone needed to step in quickly to persuade him not to go.

Of course, that someone just had to be Davey - probably the worst-suited newsie for the job.

What would Race, or one of the other boys, have done? They wouldn't have started things off with a direct reprimand, no matter how well deserved - that had been Davey's first mistake. And they probably wouldn't have asked any leading questions, either, so he supposed that was his second. He hadn't been around the newsies long enough to really understand their culture of communication, but he'd picked up things here and there, and now he desperately tried to recall some of the tactics he'd seen employed - anything to help him get the angle he needed to get through to Jack.

Suddenly, Davey remembered something Race had said to him in a conversation on their way back to the lodging house. _We gotta celebrate when we can_. When things were difficult, the newsies didn't focus on their troubles - they put up a bold front and laughed and joked instead, letting their confident bravado carry them through situations that could otherwise overwhelm and completely discourage. They highlighted their victories and downplayed their defeats. They didn't worry about the day to come - they simply lived fully in the day at hand. It wasn't Davey's way of dealing with things, and affecting the kind of carefree, self-assured attitude required would be rather out of character for him, but if that kind of approach would make Jack listen...well, maybe it was worth a shot.

_Here goes nothing,_ Davey thought to himself. He cleared his throat.

"Have you seen the papers, Jack?" he asked, unfolding the copy of _The Sun_ that he'd brought along to the theater. "We made the front page, just like Katherine said! Our story is all over New York, and that's not all," he added quickly, seeing that Jack looked unimpressed. "Just this morning, one of Spot's boys stopped by the lodging house to say that they're with us for the next event!" He smiled. "Great news, right?"

"Too little too late," Jack muttered darkly, selecting a paintbrush and pushing past Davey to walk over to the backdrop. "You forgettin' what happened at the distribution center?" He knelt down and began dabbing at the canvas.

"Yeah, they caught us off guard that time," Davey conceded, setting the paper aside. "But we've stood our ground since then, and we haven't backed down." He walked over to the newsie leader. "They're going to have to start listening to us soon, Jack, especially if Brooklyn and the rest are on board. This battle isn't over yet - not by a long shot."

Jack paused to look up at him. "Oh really?" he scoffed. "And here I thought your father taught you not to lie." Shaking his head in disgust, he turned back to the painting. "I've been watchin' the distribution center, Dave, and you know what I saw this morning? Huh?" He jabbed the paintbrush at the canvas. "_All_ of the newsies, _back_ to work, linin' up for their papes like the _strike_ never happened!"

Davey grimaced. It was true - the boys had voted to go back to work at the lodging house meeting the night before, much to his disappointment. But he and Race had decided to follow through on whatever decision was made, so accordingly, they had shown up at the distribution center the next morning. It had never occurred to Davey that Jack could have been watching the proceedings from afar and had drawn his own conclusions.

"I was there in line with the rest of them," Davey admitted, hoping that he could make Jack understand. "We're in a tough spot right now with the strike dragging on - it was either sell papes or dip into the Newsie Fund -"

Jack cut him off. "The _Newsie_ _Fund_?" he exclaimed, surging to his feet. "The _Newsie_ Fund? What was Race thinkin,' talkin' about lettin' the boys dig into that? It's supposed to be for emergencies, not for - " He broke off, scowling as he began to pace angrily. "That idiot!" he growled. "I oughta _soak _him for even thinkin' of doin' something so _stupid_!"

"Race is trying his best!" Davey retorted, unwilling to let the unwarranted criticism pass. "And so am I." He grabbed Jack's arm. "In case you've forgotten, Jack, _you_ left _us_! But if you'd just _listen_ to me for a moment - "

"Oh get down off your high horse," Jack interrupted, shaking away Davey's hand with a derisive scoff. "I ain't here to listen to your sermonizin.'" He motioned to the door, giving Davey a pointed look. "Exit's _that_ way, Dave." Then he abruptly turned away and went back to painting.

Davey didn't move. "So that's it, then?" he asked quietly. "You're just going to walk away and leave the newsies to their fate?"

Jack's shoulders stiffened, but he didn't turn around. "I ain't gonna risk any more of 'em endin' up in danger," he said rigidly. "One of 'em's in enough trouble already, thanks to me."

"Jack, we _knew_ from the beginning that we were taking a risk," Davey pleaded. "Of course it was going to be dangerous! But we can't give up now - "

"Oh, so you's willin' to just write Crutchie off like that?" Jack interrupted. "Keep movin' forward like he ain't lyin' beaten and bruised in the Refuge and might not even make it outta there alive?"

Davey winced. "No one's writing Crutchie off, Jack," he protested. "We're all worried about him, and we want him out of the Refuge just as much as you do!"

Jack inhaled sharply, and for a moment Davey thought that maybe he'd begun to see reason. But then the newsie leader shook his head. "You can talk all you want, Davey," he said, sounding at once both angry and tired. "But it won't make a difference to me. I ain't comin' back."

He stood up and began walking over to the table of art supplies. Davey's frustration grew.

"Okay, Jack," he said sarcastically, fed up with trying to be patient. "Fine. That sounds great. Nothing says 'loyalty' to your boys like hiding out while they're fighting for a cause that _you_ got them into in the first place." Jack whirled around, looking stunned at the implicit accusation as Davey added, "And I'm sure quitting will do Crutchie a world of good, too!"

Jack stood there for a moment, looking completely dumbstruck, and Davey couldn't help but smirk a little. Finally, he'd stumped him. _Let's see how you like being cornered, Jack,_ he thought, remembering the times the newsie leader had trapped him with his leading statements and confounding logic. _Two can play at this game. _

The smirk turned out to be a mistake.

Jack's eyes blazed and he strode forward, quickly closing the distance between them. "You questionin' my loyalty, Davey?" he growled. And before Davey could answer, he was being roughly jerked forward by his shirt, and Jack's fist was under his chin. "You think I don't care about my boys?" Jack demanded, his voice rising to an almost-hysterical pitch. "_Huh?!_" He shoved his fist angrily against Davey's jaw, forcing his head back a few inches. "You sayin' I don't care about _Crutchie_?!"

His eyes were furious and wet with tears.

Davey swallowed, his heart pounding. "No, Jack," he answered, willing himself not to flinch. "That's - that's not what I'm saying." He paused a moment, trying to calm himself before adding fervently, "I know that you would do anything for Crutchie and the rest of the newsies."

The statement seemed to mollify Jack somewhat, and after a moment, he stepped back, abruptly releasing his hold on Davey's shirt. His breathing was ragged and uneven as he stared blankly at his own hand which was still balled into a fist, almost as if it had acted on its own accord. Then with apparent effort, he uncurled it and swiped it across his eyes, dashing away the unshed tears before glancing warily at Davey.

"Sorry," he mumbled after a moment, scratching his head. "It ain't like me to get all riled up like that."

"That's okay, Jack," Davey replied, still shaken but grateful that the heat of the moment seemed to have passed. "I'm sorry, too," he added quickly. "It's not like me to talk the way I did, either. And I didn't mean to imply that you weren't loyal to the newsies." Despite Jack's angry outburst, Davey could see that the other boy was hurting - the guilt and pain which had been initially hidden under a front of defensive surliness practically emanated from him now, and for all that Davey didn't particularly like being threatened and hauled around by his shirt, he felt anxious to reassure Jack that there were no hard feelings.

Impulsively, and before he could think the better of it, Davey spat in his hand and held it out to the newsie leader. "Truce?" he asked tentatively, giving the other boy a hesitant smile.

Jack's face broke into a half-grin, and he promptly spat in his own hand and shook with Davey. "I ain't gonna say no to that when you's clearly sufferin' so much just to make it pax," he joked.

"Yeah, well...anything for the cause," Davey muttered, resisting the urge to wipe his hand off on his trousers. He regarded Jack closely. The tension between them had lessened significantly, but there was still the unspoken question of where the newsie leader stood that hung between them, and Davey knew that he hadn't accomplished his mission yet.

He forged ahead.

"Jack…" he began, choosing his words carefully this time, "I know you wouldn't run on us for no reason. It's exactly _because_ I know you're so loyal to the newsies that this hiding out business doesn't make any sense."

"Yeah...guess it don't," Jack admitted. The troubled expression returned to his face. "But I ain't no good to the boys, Dave." He gestured helplessly. "I couldn't -" his voice broke. "I couldn't keep 'em safe - "

"No, Jack, that's not true," Davey protested. "There wasn't anything you could have done - we were outnumbered. I _saw_ you trying your best to keep the newsies out of danger. You did everything you could!"

"Yeah, well...it weren't good enough," Jack responded bitterly.

The guilt was consuming him, and Davey gritted his teeth, trying his best to think of a way to stop the other newsie's self-deprecating train of thought.

_Give him the good news - focus on the victories, remember?_

"It's not as hopeless as it looks, Jack," he asserted. "Please...just listen to me, all right?" He was doing a rather poor job of convincing Jack, but in the absence of a more qualified party to assume the responsibility, he had to keep trying.

Jack didn't respond, but he didn't say anything more, so Davey continued. "This morning, you saw the boys line up to get their papers," he acknowledged, "...but did you see what happened after that?"

Jack shook his head, turning away. "Didn't think I needed to see anything more," he muttered, the disappointment clear in his voice.

"Well, here's what happened," Davey said quietly, walking around so that he was in front of Jack again. "_We walked away_." The other newsie looked up in surprise. "We put our pennies back in our pockets, and we turned around and walked out of the distribution center," Davey continued. "And do you know why? Because when we got close enough to see the faces of Weasel and the Delanceys, we could see that they were scared - _really_ scared."

He looked the newsie leader in the eye. "And _that's_ why this isn't over, Jack," he declared. "They may have licked us that first day at the distribution center, but they haven't made a strong showing since then. They're afraid of us, especially now that the rest of the city is sympathetic to our cause thanks to Katherine's article." He paused to let that sink in before continuing, "We've got the upper hand, Jack. They may have gotten the better of us the first time, but they have _no idea_ what our next move is going to be, and it's making them nervous. We have to take advantage of that now before they get strong enough to strike back. It's like - " he trailed off, grasping for anything he could find to strengthen his argument.

"...it's like a snake!" he finished, inwardly wincing as soon as the words left his mouth.

_Really, Davey? Of all the analogies to pick..._

Jack stared at him uncomprehendingly. "Like a _what_?"

"Like a...snake," Davey repeated. The simile made perfect sense to him, but of course Jack wouldn't understand what he was thinking. "Snakes can only make so much venom at a time, so once they've used it up, it takes a while for them to replenish their supply," he explained. "That's not to say that they can't still bite you, but they won't be able to discharge their poison for a while, which means that they're temporarily more vulnerable, and..." he broke off, giving Jack a sheepish look. "Sorry," he apologized. "It...sounded a lot more convincing in my head."

"Nah, I think I get what you's tryin' to say," Jack answered. "The newspaper owners is layin' low right now 'cause of that big brawl at the distribution center, and they's in a bit of a tight spot right now, so we gotta hit 'em hard while they's down before they get back the strength to bite us again."

"Yeah, that's….that's pretty much it," Davey agreed, thankful that his rambling explanation had been correctly interpreted and received. (And Jack had said "we" - so did that mean he was back on board?)

Deciding that it was time to seal the deal, Davey summoned all of his persuasiveness for a final push. "This is our time, Jack," he persisted. "The window of opportunity is going to be short, but if we can take advantage of it and rally our forces for one strong stand, it might be all we need to defeat Pulitzer - once and for all."

Davey put his hand on Jack's shoulder. "So come back with me," he pleaded. "Lead the newsies - and help us win this thing." He added, "You're the best of Manhattan's best, Jack. We can't do it without you."

* * *

**A/N**: I know that it's a crime not to have some of Davey's best one-liners in the entire play in this chapter, but for the sake of stretching my interpretive skills (and because I know you all _already _know why a snake starts to rattle), I tried to capture the essence of the scene without relying on those lines. The second half of it, including the arrival of Les and Katherine, will be covered in the next chapter.


	24. Persuasion II

**Disclaimer: **This is a non-commercial work of fanfiction. Anything recognizable from _Newsies_ belongs to Disney and not to me.

* * *

Chapter 24: Persuasion II

Jack's response to Davey's entreaty was prevented by the rather noisy arrival of Les and Katherine.

"See? I _told_ you we'd find him here!" Les declared triumphantly as he and Katherine made their way across the same catwalk Davey had used to access the stage.

"For cryin' out loud, Davey," Jack grumbled under his breath. "Didja have to bring the whole posse with ya?"

"There's no escaping my brother," Davey deadpanned. "He's inevitable."

That earned a hint of a smile.

"So, what do you say, Jack?" Les asked brightly as he and Katherine drew near. "Is the rally a good idea...or _is_ it a good idea?"

"Hold on, Les," Davey broke in quickly. "I haven't told him about it, yet."

Les' mouth fell open. "You mean you've been palavering this _whole_ time, and you haven't even asked him about the rally?" he asked, giving his brother a look of disbelief.

"We had...other things to talk about," Davey answered vaguely.

"Well, let's get on with it!" Les declared. "I've gotta let Sally know we've got a date!"

"Sally? Les, I told you, you're not - " Davey stopped himself. They were getting off track. "Never mind. We'll talk about this later," he said firmly.

"Jack," he said, turning to the newsie leader, "we want to hold a rally for the newsboys - not just Manhattan, but all the newsies of New York. It'll be a chance for them to learn about the strike, to ask questions and raise concerns, and hopefully commit to the cause, since we'll need their help to win this thing. If Miss Medda is open to it, we'd like to host the rally here at Irving Hall. It's big enough for a large crowd, it'll keep us out of the way of the police - oh, and," Davey smiled, particularly pleased at this last logistical detail, "we'll hold the event in the evening after working hours, so no one has to lose a day's pay." He glanced at Jack, trying to gauge the other newsie's reaction. "What do you think?"

Jack's expression was unreadable. "Sounds a little crazy to me," he hedged. "You sure the rest of the newsies is gonna want to come traipsin' all the way over to Manhattan?"

"Spot promised he'd be with us for the next event," Davey reminded him. "And if Brooklyn shows up, the rest will follow." He said it a bit more confidently than he felt, but he reasoned that it wasn't really too much of a stretch, assuming that Spot would keep his word.

If only he could get Jack on board...

"I don't think it's nearly as crazy as it might sound, Jack," Katherine said, breaking into the conversation for the first time. She walked up to Jack, stopping just in front of him. "Davey's right - we need to get the rest of the city's newsies on our side. This rally might be what we need to convince them to join us."

Jack looked at her, holding her gaze for a moment, and Davey watched in fascination as the doubt seemed to roll off of Jack's shoulders almost immediately as something unspoken passed between him and the reporter.

"You may have a point, Plumber," the newsie leader murmured, his voice suddenly softer and more agreeable.

Davey fought the urge to roll his eyes. Of course, one word from Katherine was all that it took for Jack to give in. Never mind all the mental gymnastics Davey had been putting himself through for the past half hour or the logical arguments he'd so painstakingly set forth. Why hadn't he just stayed behind with Les at the deli and sent Katherine ahead to do the persuading?

Well, this was no time to be petty. The important thing was that Jack was back, and that was all they needed.

"Okay, great," Davey said briskly, trying his best to keep things rolling. Jack and Katherine were clearly still lost in their own world, and he suddenly felt like an intruder, but like it or not, they had a rally to plan. "Jack, will you ask Miss Medda if we can use the theater? Ideally, we'd like to hold the rally as soon as possible, but of course if she has shows booked, we'll work around her schedule."

"Sure thing, Dave," Jack murmured, still gazing at Katherine. "I'll ask her and let'cha know."

"Once we have a date set for the rally, Race and the boys will take care of making sure the word gets out to the rest of the city's newsies," Davey continued, not sure of exactly whom he was speaking to at this point but needing to clear his head of the details. "I'll take care of planning the logistics for the night itself, and Katherine - "

"Yes?" the reporter asked politely, tearing her eyes away from Jack to momentarily give Davey her attention.

"Can you use your connections at _The Sun_ to find out if there's anything going on in the newspaper world regarding the strike?" Davey asked. "If Pulitzer and Hearst or any of the others are planning to make a move, it would be helpful to know as much as we can about it ahead of time. Anything - even if it's only a rumor at this point - would be helpful information."

"I'll see what I can do," Katherine promised.

Davey nodded. "All right, it's settled then," he concluded, satisfied at their progress. Things were finally coming together. "We've got a plan."

"And I've got a date!" Les interjected loudly, clearly relieved to have reached the end of the discussion.

Davey sighed, taking his little brother by the shoulders. "Les, please focus," he implored. "Now is not the time to be thinking about girls, all right?"

Les smacked Davey forcefully on the arm with his hat. "Just because _you're_ a stick-in-the-mud doesn't mean the rest of us can't have any fun, David," the younger boy declared scornfully as he settled his bowler back on top of his head. "Maybe _you_ couldn't focus on the strike and a girl at the same time, but there _are_ some of us who _can_ do both." Les then walked off imperiously and Davey was left to hurry after him, vaguely unsettled by his brother's pointed assessment.

As they hastily left the stage, Davey glanced over his shoulder at Katherine and Jack, giving them an apologetic shrug and waving a quick goodbye. The reporter looked slightly amused, and Jack went so far as to call out the word "inevitable" after Davey, who rolled his eyes in response.

Sometimes, he reflected as he turned to follow Les, being an older brother really was a pain.

* * *

As soon as the Jacobs boys had disappeared, Katherine's attention returned to Jack. "You look terrible," she said, concerned. There was a haunted look on his face and a weariness in his posture that she hadn't seen before.

Jack scoffed, but there was no derision in it. "Yeah…I uh...I ain't been sleepin' much," he admitted before attempting a grin. "But you? Lookin' like a million bucks as always."

Katherine shook her head. He _really_ was an irrepressible flirt. "I'm glad to see your knack for flattery is still intact," she said drolly.

"Yeah, well, I guess no one's been able to knock that outta me yet," Jack grinned a little wider this time. He wiped his hands on a rag, then began cleaning up his painting supplies. "So...how come you ain't at the office today?" he asked curiously. "Ain't you reporters always chasin' a story or somethin'?"

"A reporter could tell you," Katherine responded ironically. Jack stared at her, uncomprehending, until she added, "Pulitzer's blacklisted me from every newspaper in town, which means…" The words caught unexpectedly in her throat before she forced herself to continue, "...which means I won't be chasing any more stories for a while," she finished.

He looked stunned. "Katherine…"

"It's fine, Jack," she said quickly. "We've all had to give things up for the strike." The last thing he needed was another burden on his conscience.

"But...your job…" He was at a loss for words.

"I'm not the only one who put themselves on the line," Katherine repeated firmly. "Your boys are the real heroes. They've stood their ground, and people are finally listening. I think that victory may be closer than we think." She paused, then looked him in the eye, adding, "I'm glad you're going to re-join them, Jack. They need you."

"Yeah, well…" he shrugged, "sayin' 'yes' was the only way to get Davey to finally shut up, and someone's gotta make sure Racer doesn't let the lodgin' house burn down." The words were deprecating, but Katherine didn't miss the fondness behind them.

"You need them too, don't you?" she asked, giving him a knowing look. "The newsies. They're your home...your family...your heart."

Jack scoffed at the sentimentality in her words, but he didn't deny it. "They's my brothers," he said simply, shaking his head a little. "And I still ain't sure why I left 'em...or why I'm so scared to go back." The guilt was still clearly weighing on him as he added, "Davey's right - this hidin' out business ain't doin' nobody any good, 'specially not Crutchie." He laughed humorlessly. "I almost knocked him out for sayin' so, though."

Katherine's eyes widened. "You almost punched Davey?"

"Was this close to sockin' him in the jaw," Jack admitted, sounding a little ashamed. "Poor guy's head would be spinnin' right now if I hadn't stopped myself."

"Well, it's a good thing you did!" Katherine replied, vaguely troubled. "He's only trying to help you, Jack, and he and Race have kept things running all this time. You owe them your gratitude."

"I know, I know," Jack conceded. "I'll make it up to 'em somehow." He sighed.

"So you're not planning to go anywhere, then?" Katherine pressed after he'd been silent for a moment. "You'll stay around?" She was asking for the newsies' sake, of course, but she involuntarily held her breath as she waited for his answer.

Jack gave her an odd look. "What are you talkin' about?"

"Davey told me Race mentioned that you might have had thoughts about running off to Santa Fe," Katherine said bluntly, deciding not to beat around the bush.

Jack scratched his head, looking a little irked. "Racer's a bigmouth," he muttered. "And Dave should know better than to repeat things he ain't got on good authority."

"So you _weren't_ thinking of skipping town?" Katherine reiterated. "They completely misjudged you?"

"You think I'd even consider leavin' when I still got unfinished business here?" Jack responded, his saucy smile leaving no doubt in her mind that he wasn't talking about the strike. He winked, adding, "I ain't even gotten a chance to ask you on a proper date, yet." The words came off smoothly, but Katherine could see the uneasiness in his eyes that even his charismatic charm couldn't hide.

"Just answer the question, Jack," she said frankly. As much as she enjoyed his fascination with her, she wasn't going to engage with any of his coquetry until she'd gotten a straightforward response. Jack may have been facinating, but Katherine wasn't gullible, and if she was going to commit herself to throwing in her lot with this impossible boy, she wanted to do it with her eyes wide open.

Jack was silent for a moment, and Katherine watched as a mix of emotions crossed his face. "I ain't…" he paused. "I ain't plannin' on goin' anywhere right now," he muttered finally, turning slightly away from her as though it had cost him something to admit that he was still unsure about staying.

Katherine's heart went out to him. Jack may have been many things - cocky, erratic, and occasionally even a little frightening - but underneath his brash exterior was a courageous and passionate heart that somehow hadn't become hardened - not even by his impoverished life and the weight of the world on his shoulders.

Katherine hoped that whatever inner turmoil he was fighting wouldn't succeed in overcoming him. She would do her best to make sure that it didn't. Jack's answer might not have been exactly what she'd wanted to hear, but it had been honest...and that was enough for her.

"Well," she said brightly, giving him a cheerful smile, "that wasn't so hard now, was it?"

"Whaddaya mean?" he asked cautiously.

"Being honest," she answered simply. "Telling the truth without hiding."

"I dunno," Jack admitted, scratching his head and smiling hesitantly at her. "It's easier with you than with the boys, somehow…I ain't sure why." He thought for a moment, then added, "I guess it's 'cause I don't feel like I haf'ta to prove nothin' to you...like you's already in my corner or somethin.'" He gestured to the copy of _The Sun_ that Davey had left on the table. "Like you believe in me, somehow, even though you ain't got one good reason in the world to - "

"Stop, Jack," Katherine said firmly. She may have employed some strategic hyperbole in her article, but she'd meant and believed every word she'd written. "I _do_ have good reason to believe in you. You're the one who started this strike. You're the leader of the movement and the face of the union." She placed a hand gently on his arm. "The boys wouldn't be where they are without you."

He didn't say anything at first in response to her declaration, but she could see his countenance soften at her words and at her sympathetic touch.

"You sure is a forgivin' one, Plumber," he muttered ruefully, shaking his head. "I appreciate it, but I'm pretty sure the boys ain't gonna take me back so easily...'specially not Racer. "

"They're all just worried about you, Jack," Katherine admonished lightly. "It may take some time, but they'll eventually come around." She patted his arm. "Don't be so hard on them."

"Hey, why're you always defendin' those bummers?" Jack asked jokingly, a bit of playfulness back in his voice. "Ain't you reporters supposed to be non-partisan?"

Katherine gave him a look. "Not a reporter anymore, Jack, remember?" she reminded him.

"Oh...right." He looked a little embarrassed at having forgotten, but even still, a grin began to spread itself across his face. "Well, Miss Plumber," he said, straightening his cap a little and giving her a cocky smile, "since you ain't busy chasin' stories right now, what do ya say to goin' on a little date with me, huh? We could catch a show sometime, since I know you probably miss reviewin' 'em so much." He winked.

Katherine found herself smiling in response. Jack _really _was quite charming when he wanted to be, and his invitation intrigued her. Why not see where it went? There were certainly worse ways she could be spending her time, and he was right about one thing - she wasn't busy chasing stories at the moment. _The World_ and its avaricious owner had stung her, wounding her career prospects and leaving her future uncertain. But it the strangest way, _The World_ had also brought her to Jack, who had believed in her enough to trust her with proclaiming the newsboys' cause. In doing so, he'd given Katherine the story she'd been waiting her whole life to write, and she would always be grateful to him for that, no matter what happened between them in the days and weeks to come.

So the former reporter found herself declaring congenially, "I think I can clear my schedule to accommodate you, Mr. Kelly."

"How 'bout a Saturday matinee, then?" Jack asked with a twinkle in his eye.

Katherine nodded, her smile mirroring his own. "Perfect," she agreed. "It's a date."

* * *

**A/N**: Can't have a proper Davey story without including "poor guy's head is spinning," even if it ended up being completely re-contextualized :) Thanks for reading, and please let me know what you thought!


	25. A Chance Meeting

**Disclaimer: **This is a non-commercial work of fanfiction. Anything recognizable from _Newsies_ belongs to Disney and not to me.

* * *

Chapter 25_:_ A Chance Meeting

Davey half-expected Les to continue his ruthless denunciation as they left the theater, but to his surprise, the younger boy had nothing further to say on the subject of Davey's purported inability to balance the competing demands of leading a strike and enjoying a social life. Davey was thankful for even that small favor (Les was probably right, but there was no need to belabor the issue).

The walk back to the tenement was unusually silent, and in the sudden absence of an immediate task to accomplish or a distraction to deal with, Davey found the effects of the last several days catching up to him. He was always thinking, so the mental fatigue was minimal despite all of the things he'd recently had to reason through, but he wasn't used to dealing with people in such high-stakes situations. Now that he could let his guard down just a bit, Davey had to admit that he was...well, tired.

It was the satisfying kind of tired, though - the kind you felt after you'd given your best and had accomplished something worthwhile. He'd found Jack. And though Davey hadn't managed to convince him to return to lead the newsies (they had Katherine to thank for that), in the end, the final objective on his list had been completed.

It was time to begin again.

Preparing for the rally's execution now came to the forefront of Davey's thoughts. There was much that still needed to be settled with confirmation of the date and location still pending, but in the meantime, he could put his mind to the things he was good at - the details and logistics that he'd learned most people weren't particularly interested in hearing about or keen on thinking through. (Oddly enough, these were also the things that got him most excited).

So Davey set about the task of strategizing, and soon his mind was full of ideas and he had several more mental checklists lined up for completion. The walk home proved to be too short of a time to process it all, but he had a place to start now, and he found himself suddenly re-energized and ready to get back to work.

Reaching their family's apartment, Davey fished out his key and opened the door. He was about to follow Les in, when he heard the sound of someone struggling up the stairs below, followed by a loud clatter.

"Les," he called quickly, "I'll be right back. Check on Dad for me, okay?" Receiving confirmation from his brother, Davey shut the door then hurried over to the stairs. A man was crouched halfway up the flight, several large pieces of wood tucked under his arm as he reached down to grasp for the boards that had fallen haphazardly at his feet.

"Can I help you?" Davey asked, making his way down the steps. "That looks like a lot for one person to handle."

The man looked up in surprise, then gave him a cheerful smile. "Well, if you're going to be kind enough to offer, son, I'll happily share the load." He motioned to the boards on the ground. "If you could get those for me, I think I can manage the rest."

Davey nodded, collecting the rest of the planks and following the man as he made his way up the stairs. They continued climbing until they'd reached the rooftop of the tenement where the man walked over to a corner of the roof and set his burden down, motioning for Davey to do the same. Once the pile of wood pieces had been more or less neatly arranged, the man stood back, wiping his brow.

"I'm obliged to you," he said, smiling gratefully at Davey. "That would've taken me two trips at least if you hadn't shown up when you did."

"It wasn't a problem," Davey replied easily. "Glad to help." He was about to give the man a polite nod before turning away, when a thought suddenly crossed his mind.

"Is this...is this wood going to be discarded?" he asked, unsure of how to phrase his question. It didn't seem like the kind of material that would be used for a carpentry project; many of the boards were clearly worn, and several were oddly sized, as though they were the scraps left over from something else.

The man shook his head. "No - at least, not right away. I'm going to leave it up here for a week to see if any of the tenants want it - first come, first served." He gave Davey a curious look. "If you've got a project in mind, son, you're more than welcome to take it all. I'd be happy to know that it was being put to good use."

He smiled warmly again, and Davey was suddenly struck by the uncanny feeling that they'd been acquainted before, though he was sure that they hadn't. But before he could puzzle himself further on the matter, the mystery was clarified for him.

"Philip Becker, by the way," the man said, extending his hand. "I'm the landlord here."

_That _was why he looked so familiar - Davey had seen a strikingly similar smile on the face of the man's second-youngest daughter.

"A pleasure to meet you, Mr. Becker," he said, shaking the proffered hand. "I'm David Jacobs. My family lives on the second floor."

"David!" the man exclaimed. "So _you're_ the one Sadie's told me about!"

Davey didn't know exactly what to say to that. "Yes - I guess that's me," he said, attempting a smile. "I'm indebted to her for her generosity in helping me keep up with my studies. I don't know how I'd manage if it wasn't for her."

Philip Becker shook his head fondly. "Well, Sadie's a good-hearted girl even if she can be a little impulsive at times. I'm glad she's followed through on her offer of helping you and that your own study habits haven't suffered under her tutelage. My daughter means well, but by her own admission, academics aren't her strong point."

"She's actually really bright!" Davey blurted out before he thought the better of it. "At least...she is...from what I've seen. Not - " he amended quickly, " -that I'm trying to contradict you, sir. You've - well, you've obviously known Sadie a lot longer than I have."

He cringed inwardly, wondering what unfortunate instinct had provoked him to say something so superfluous and in such a ridiculous manner, but there was nothing he could do about it now.

To his surprise, Philip Becker seemed rather delighted at the clumsily-delivered compliment. "Well, that makes a father very proud to hear," he said. "I've always believed that Sadie was smarter than she gave herself credit for, and her mother and I have hoped that she would apply herself a bit more to her studies, which it seems she's managed to do, thanks to you. But what pleases me most is knowing that she's stuck to her promise and hasn't shirked her responsibility or done a half-hearted job. That determination to master something difficult isn't easy, but Sadie's a stubborn girl, and she's capable of more than she thinks when she puts her mind to it."

"She certainly is," Davey agreed. "Capable, I mean - not stubborn. Though I suppose she is that, too...in a...tenacious kind of way."

He _really _ought to implement some kind of self-regulating mechanism so that he didn't keep embarrassing himself like this, but Philip Becker shared his daughter's approachability, and that inviting nature always seemed to draw out the worst of Davey's verbal stumbling.

"Well, I'm happy to have gotten a chance to meet my daughter's classmate and friend," the landlord said jovially, breaking into Davey's self-deprecating thoughts. "Thank you again, David, for your help, and please - " he motioned to the pile of wood, "- take whatever you need. If you'd like to borrow some tools for your project, I've got a supply closet in my office - stop by any time, or ask Sadie to show you where things are. She knows her way around."

"Thank you," Davey responded gratefully. He _did_ have a purpose in mind for the wood, and the prospect of additionally having access to tools was even more exciting, but another idea had just come into his mind, and he was debating with himself now over whether to give voice to it while the landlord was conveniently present or to more sensibly wait to broach the subject until he'd had more time to think the matter over.

Surprisingly, impulsiveness won out.

"Mr. Becker," Davey said quickly, just as the man was about to turn away to start back towards the stairs. "I don't suppose you'd have any odd jobs around the tenement that you might need help with?"

The landlord looked surprised, but (to Davey's relief) not offended, and after a moment of consideration, he nodded thoughtfully. "I think I might actually have some projects lined up that could benefit from an extra set of hands," he said. "Are you looking for work?"

"Yes," Davey answered, hoping that he didn't sound too desperate. He didn't want to elaborate on his family's situation (he wasn't sure how much of it Mr. Becker knew already, anyway), but if he could manage to do some work around the tenement, it would help to offset the Jacobs' quickly dwindling reserve fund. And of course, there was the additional appeal of not having to go far for work and the flexibility of being able to balance projects at the tenement with responsibilities at the lodging house.

"I don't have much experience with these kinds of things," he admitted, wanting to be completely honest about his ability to do the job, "but I'd try to learn quickly, and to do careful work."

"Well, I think we may be able to arrange something, David," Philip Becker said kindly. "There are always jobs needing to be done around a tenement of this size. Let me speak to my other employee to make sure it's not a problem if I reassign some tasks to you, and once that's done, I'll stop by your family's apartment to discuss things further. Does that sound agreeable to you?"

"Yes!" Davey exclaimed, unable to stop the elation from bleeding into his voice. "Thank you, Mr. Becker!" _Thank you, God! _Finally, here was a solution to the problem that had been hounding Davey ever since the strike began. With an additional source of income, the financial strain on his family would be significantly lessened, which meant that his mother wouldn't have to take on additional hours at the factory, his father might be able to see a doctor to get his leg properly looked at, they could maybe even start eating three meals again, and -

Davey almost could have cried from relief.

The landlord must have sensed his exhilaration, because he patted him kindly on the back, promising again that he would be in touch soon to make the necessary arrangements before cordially taking his leave.

As soon as the sound of Philip Becker's footsteps had faded away down the stairs, Davey leapt into the air, throwing both of his hands up as high as he could and then bringing them down in a silent cheer. He _never_ did this - it wasn't like him. But he couldn't help it. He was deliriously happy. Less than two weeks ago, he'd been sitting on this very same rooftop, nearly crushed by the impending responsibility of having to become a newsboy to feed his family. A few days after that, he'd returned to the same spot to ponder the strike that had left his conscience satisfied but his family lacking. Now he found himself celebrating the unexpected but welcome news that the problem of his missing income would soon be laid to rest - and that he could still continue to press forward with helping to lead the strike.

It was simply too much to keep in.

Adjusting his cap on his head, Davey decided that he would return to the apartment to share the good news with his family. They would be wondering where he'd gotten to, anyway, and though there was much to do, he could allow himself some time to revel in the moment. It was the newsie way, after all: to celebrate the victories, no matter how big or small, because every win was worth something.

Davey grinned to himself, pleased at having applied this bit of recently-discovered wisdom. (Maybe in time he'd be able to pass for a respectable newsie after all). As he started towards the stairs, eager to speak with his family, he found himself feeling uncharacteristically lighthearted, and he wondered if maybe he ought to allow himself to express his emotions a bit more every once in a while - at least to himself, if not publicly. In the moment, he felt like nothing could hamper his enthusiasm or diminish his excitement. Things had finally fallen into place, and he was on top of the world.

* * *

Some time later, Davey returned to the rooftop, considerably more in control of his emotions but no less elated for having shared the good news with his family.

His father hadn't said much, but Davey had seen the relief in his eyes upon hearing the announcement, and he knew that the man was pleased, even though he'd remained characteristically reserved about saying so. Davey's mother, who had just returned from her job at the factory, had been far more expressive in her happiness, praising her son for his resourcefulness and enfolding him in a hug that he had bashfully returned. Les - predictably - had wanted to know if they could celebrate with ice cream or a treat of some kind, a query that had earned him an indulgent smile from his mother and a promise that she would head to the confectionery to see if there was anything she could find that would be suitable. Mayer had objected slightly to this, citing the cost, but Esther had maintained that it was a special occasion, and that she wouldn't be too extravagant.

Despite this small disagreement, the tiny apartment was filled with more merriment than it had ever seen in the short time the Jacobs family had been in Manhattan, and Philip Becker's arrival in the middle of the excitement had only served to heighten everyone's good humor. The landlord was heartily welcomed in and thanked for his kindness (which he waved off in a friendly manner), and he'd cordially spent the better part of an hour chatting with Mayer and Esther before informing Davey that he'd cleared things with his other employee and that he had a list of jobs lined up form completion whenever Davey was ready to start tackling them. Having delivered this news, the landlord had taken his leave shortly thereafter, apologizing for his abrupt departure but explaining that he needed to meet with a potential tenant who would be arriving within the hour.

As soon as the door had closed behind him, Esther had prepared to leave as well, reiterating to Mayer that she would be as thrifty as possible while simultaneously promising Les to bring home something "extra special" that would satisfy his craving. Davey had watched the proceedings with mild amusement; his mother was a resourceful woman, and he didn't doubt her ability to keep her promise to both her husband and her younger son, but still, he was curious to see what she would come back with. They didn't often get to enjoy sweets of any kind, so he was sure whatever his mother picked from the confectionery would be eagerly devoured.

Once his mother had left, Davey, too, had exited the apartment, heading back to the rooftop. There were still a few hours of daylight remaining, and he was eager to claim some of the scrap wood on the rooftop and begin his next project though he knew he probably wouldn't get very far with it that day.

He sorted through the pile, examining the pieces closely and setting aside the ones he thought would suit his purpose, then arranging them in a neat stack away from the rest of the lumber. He was just mulling over how he should go about labeling his portion when he heard the sound of footsteps coming up the stairs behind him.

"Rather bold of you, Davey, to think that you can just waltz up here, get acquainted with my father, then summarily take all of my jobs around the tenement," came Sadie's familiar teasing voice. Davey turned in surprise to see the landlord's daughter walking towards him with an impish grin. "I've half a mind to threaten you with what I think you newsboys call 'a soaking,' or at least with the prospect of not just _trying_ my baking but eating it for a week!" she said with mock severity.

"Wait…" Davey gave her a confused look as his mind frantically tried to make sense of what she was implying. "You mean..._you're_ your father's other employee?"

"Surprised?" Sadie asked with a laugh. "I thought you already knew that I had a hand in the family business!"

"I mean, I knew you helped your father out with things," Davey faltered, "but I didn't know he depended on you so much."

"Well, when you have four daughters and only one of them is at all remotely inclined to tackle odd jobs, you make do, I suppose," Sadie gave a little shrug. "I'm sure he could do much better if he were to actually hire a property manager to assist him, but he does so much of the work himself that he gets by with just a little assistance from me. I like to keep busy, anyway, and he's generous enough to pay me for my work, so it's a mutually beneficial arrangement. However…" she cocked her head, giving him a teasing smile, "now that you've relieved me of the majority of my usual tasks, my job security is precarious at best." She sighed. "You've left me in quite the predicament, Davey. I really _ought_ to soak you."

Davey tried not to look too amused by the threat; he found it slightly entertaining coming from a girl who couldn't be an inch or two over five feet tall, but of course it wouldn't do to tell her that.

"Maybe it's just as well," he said instead. "I'm sure your father will appreciate having an employee who actually observes proper safety protocols - especially where painting doors is concerned."

What on earth had possessed him to tease her like that? It had to be runoff from his earlier excitement; he doubted very much that he would have been bold enough to taunt her, however mildly, if he had not been under the influence of some extreme form of exuberance.

Sadie looked both delighted and shocked at the unexpected jibe. "Davey Jacobs!" she exclaimed, a smile spreading across her face. "I didn't think you had a ruthless bone in your body, but it appears I've underestimated you." She gave him an appreciative nod. "I'll have to be much more careful around you from now on, lest you surprise me again!"

"You're not...you're not offended, are you?" Davey asked hesitantly, his tendency to second-guess himself quickly getting the better of him. "I didn't really mean it."

"Offended?" Sadie echoed. "Of course not! It pleases me to be considered a worthy enough opponent to banter with, and it's said that a good-natured insult is a sign of true friendship, so you needn't concern yourself on my account."

Davey smiled, relieved that she'd taken his uncharacteristic teasing in stride and thinking to himself that she was right - at least, the newsies he'd been keeping company with lately seemed to prove her point.

"But you really don't mind me taking your jobs?" he asked, wanting to be completely clear on the matter. "If you'd prefer that I didn't, I can talk to your father."

Sadie laughed. "No, I don't mind at all," she assured him. "I can always bring alterations home from the tailor's if I want to do more work, and my mother will actually be relieved to hear that I've given up my role as Papa's junior handyman, at least for now. Besides," she added jokingly, "trying to keep up in class so that I can tutor you has certainly kept me busy enough!"

Davey found himself feeling unexpectedly guilty over the facetious statement. "I'm indebted to you, Sadie," he said soberly. "Several times over…"

Her teasing expression softened. "Not at all," she said in the same gentle voice he'd heard only once before, when she'd expressed concern for his safety at the outset of the strike. "It's true I don't enjoy schoolwork, but I _do_ enjoy helping people, so you really aren't putting me out. If anything, the extra study has helped my performance in school tremendously which has pleased both my parents and our schoolmaster, so I have you to thank for that."

"However," she continued in a lighthearted tone, "if you must continually insist upon placing yourself in my debt, Davey, I'm _sure_ I can find a way for you to make it up to me. I already owe you some baking to try, and no doubt there are other far more ridiculous things I can contrive to put you through, if only I take the time to think on it."

She smiled at him, and Davey, despite his nagging feeling of guilt, found himself succumbing to her reassurance. It still surprised him that she would be willing to go out of her way so much, especially when he'd done nothing to merit that kindness and had done nothing for her in return, but if she was going to be benevolent enough to offer him a favor, he could at least be humble enough to receive it.

"Well...thank you," he said simply. "This opportunity means a lot, not just to me, but to my family, too. We're all grateful to you and to your father. And - " he added impetuously, "whenever you decide on whatever ridiculous things you'd like to put me through...well, you know where to find me."

He surprised her again - _what in the world was going on with him today?_ \- but then he saw a mischievous look cross her face, and he knew that she was pleased with his audacious statement. "Just wait, Davey," she declared cheerfully. "I'll make an adventurous and impulsive boy of you yet."

"That may prove to be harder than you think," he smiled. "But you're welcome to try."

Sadie tilted her chin up just a fraction of an inch. "Oh, I intend to," she answered. "Consider the challenge accepted." He hadn't expected her to take him so sincerely, but clearly she wasn't the kind to back down from a challenge, and for a fleeting moment, Davey wondered what kinds of unexpected things could be in store for him if she really _did_ put her mind to the task of trying to draw him out of his cautious nature.

"Well, now that shots have been fired," Sadie said, suddenly sounding more business-like, "I suppose we must declare an official truce for the time-being. My father has asked me to show you the supply closet in his office so that you can be familiar with everything when you start work. I stopped by your family's apartment to look for you, and Les told me you'd gone up here. Would you be able to step away for a moment, or should I come back at another time?"

"Now is fine, thanks," Davey answered, deciding that he would come back later to label his wood pile and then would call it a day. He could get to work on the project he had in mind later - there was still plenty of time. Satisfied, he turned to follow Sadie as she led the way towards the stairs, a feeling of contentment settling upon him as he did so.

All in all, it had been a very gratifying day.

* * *

**A/N: **I'm not sure if this applies to anyone, but if you came here because this story is listed under the romance genre, I do apologize that we're 25 chapters into this thing and I still haven't given you much in that department. Feel free to yell at me and the plot bunnies in the comments if you'd like. If you've stuck with this story anyway, though, thank you for your patience, and I hope that by the end, you'll be glad you hung in there. :)


	26. Convincing Jack

**Disclaimer: **This is a non-commercial work of fanfiction. Anything recognizable from _Newsies_ belongs to Disney and not to me.

* * *

Chapter 26_:_ Convincing Jack

Not entirely to Davey's surprise, it turned out that Race wasn't ready to see Jack yet.

The gambler had listened to Davey's report about the conversation at the theater and had received the news without saying a single word, but upon the report's completion, Race had loudly announced that he needed to blow off some steam and was headed to the Sheepshead Bay Racetrack for the rest of the day. He placed Specs in charge of the newsies, tasked Henry with purchasing food for their lunch, and ordered Davey to "go work it out" with Jack and report back the following day. Then Race pulled his cap onto his head, tucked his cigar into his vest pocket, and promptly left the lodging house without saying another word to anyone.

Davey and Specs shared a look, the former shrugging apologetically and the latter shaking his head in dismay before going over to break up a scuffle that had broken out between Finch and Sniper. Henry silently tucked the money Race had given him for the newsies' lunch into his pocket, then, with a little nod to Davey, left to fulfill his task.

Davey waited a few moments before heading out himself; he wanted to make sure that the newsies wouldn't prove to be too much for Specs to handle, but after a few minutes of observation, it was clear that the other boy had things well in hand, so Davey took his leave, heading down the street. It felt odd to be walking anywhere by himself, but Les (despite his rather vocal protests) had been sent back to school that morning, sentenced to resume his scholastic obligations until the strike resolved. This left Davey without anyone to look after, and it was an oddly freeing and yet unusual feeling.

It probably had turned out for the best that Les hadn't been there to witness Race's strong reaction to the report on Jack's whereabouts. The younger boy would have certainly had questions - questions that would have been beyond the scope of Davey's ability to explain in a tactful manner (though in general, prudence was never easy to maintain when it came to explaining things to Les).

Truth be told, Davey didn't fault Race for his outburst. It had been a stressful time, and Race had borne the brunt of the fallout from Jack's absence, so it really wasn't surprising that he would need some time and space to vent his frustrations. Furthermore, the unexpected responsibility of leading the newsies had left Race cooped up in the lodging house without his usual methods of respite, so his reaction was to be expected. Davey just hoped the gambler wouldn't make any resentment-induced decisions at the track.

Trying his best not to worry about the other newsie, Davey turned his attention to the duty he'd been tasked with - to work out the details of the rally with Jack, who, it seemed, had elected not to return to the lodging house the night before and had likely remained at the theater (perhaps, Davey mused, Race wasn't the only one not ready for a face-to-face reunion). It wasn't a position Davey relished, playing go-between, but he could understand the hesitation on both sides, and he wasn't going to fault either newsie for that. Jack and Race would eventually have to see each other at the rally, and that would be soon enough.

Making his way to Irving Hall, Davey let himself in through the same back door he'd used the day before, making his way through the labyrinth of backstage passages easily this time. He found Jack dozing off on the stage behind one of the canvas backdrops, slouched awkwardly on a stool and leaning against the wall, a paintbrush slowly sliding out of his fingers.

Davey reached out and managed to catch the brush before it fell, grimacing at the flecks of white paint now dotting his shirt sleeve (he seemed to have the most unfortunate luck when it came to these things, but at least the shirt was white, too, so it didn't really show). Jack startled awake, roused perhaps by the sound of the sudden movement, and seemed to be disoriented at first, his eyes darting between Davey and the paintbrush in confusion.

"What the…?" he muttered, rubbing his eyes. "Where am I?"

Davey set the brush down on the nearby table of painting supplies. "You're at Irving Hall, Jack," he said calmly, trying to hide his slight concern at the other boy's disorientation. "You've been painting backdrops for Miss Medda. Katherine, Les, and I found you here yesterday, remember?"

"Oh...right." Jack straightened up, rolling his neck a bit and wincing. "Must've fallen asleep for a while there," he said, regarding the open cans of paint around him with dismay. "I was havin' the strangest dream." He rose and began sealing up the paint, as though needing to do something concrete to bring himself back to reality. "What're you doin' here, Davey?" he asked, sounding tired. "Did Racer send the Walkin' Mouth over to give me the tongue-lashin' he thinks I deserve?"

Davey was grateful that Jack wasn't looking at him right then. "N-no," he answered, trying not to grimace at how unconvincing he sounded. "That's not why I'm here, Jack. I wanted to talk to you more about the rally."

"What about it?" Jack questioned, still busy with the paint.

"Well...did you get a chance to ask Miss Medda about whether or not we could use the theater?" Davey asked, deciding they might as well cover the easy details first.

Jack nodded. "Yeah. She said Saturday night's ours if we want it."

Saturday night. That gave them almost two days to prepare, probably just enough time if they stayed on track.

"Okay, great," Davey answered, already adjusting his numerous mental checklists. "That's a big relief to know we've got a place to hold the rally. Now we can spread the word to the rest of the newsies around the city." Race and the boys would be able to get to that the following day.

Now to discuss the slightly less-innocuous details.

"Jack..." Davey began hesitantly, shoving his hands into his pockets, "I was actually hoping - " Jack brushed past him, moving several cans of paint to the other side of the canvas backdrop. "I was hoping to talk to you about something else, too," Davey continued, raising his voice a notch so that the other newsie could hear him behind the backdrop. He wished that Jack would stop moving for just a moment so that they could discuss things - it was hard enough to broach the subject without having to speak to a moving target - but if Jack needed to express his restless energy, so be it.

"What's that, Dave?" Jack asked, sounding affable enough from the other side of the canvas.

"Well…I was wondering if you were planning to speak at the rally or not," Davey hedged, inwardly chiding himself for turning what should have been a direct question into a passive statement. _Come on, Davey - you can do better than that. _He cleared his throat and walked around to the other side of the backdrop where Jack had begun painting again.

"I think it would only be right for you to address the crowd since you're the face of the strike," he said, more assertively this time. "It would start the night off strong if you could give a welcome and maybe a speech of some kind like you did with the scabs at the distribution center." Jack was a charismatic orator, and even if his manner of speaking wasn't the most polished, he had a way of mesmerizing and inspiring others. He really _was_ the only logical choice, and Davey fervently hoped that he would agree to be the first one to address the crowd on the night of the rally.

"You sure you want to leave the speechifyin' up to me, Davey?" Jack asked, making short, quick strokes across the canvas. "I ain't exactly a shinin' example of stickin' with the strike, ya know. I ain't even sure the fellas'll want to listen to me."

"They will," Davey said firmly. "They'll be overjoyed to see you, Jack." He was sure that, despite the disappointment the other Manhattan boys felt with regards to Jack's absence, there would be a warm welcome waiting for the newsie leader when he made his reappearance. Race was the exception - and he had good reason to be upset - but Davey didn't think the others would be anything but excited at Jack's return.

"Besides," he added sensibly, "Brooklyn and the others don't know that you took some time away. Race didn't tell them anything, so they won't be the wiser."

Jack paused, seemingly surprised at this, but Davey saw a grateful look flash briefly across his face before he began painting again, and Davey hoped that this little bit of information had done something to begin mending the breach between Jack and Race, a rift which seemed to be guilt-induced on the one end and frustration-provoked on the other.

"I still ain't sure it's a good idea," Jack muttered, sounding conflicted but (Davey noted hopefully) not completely opposed to the idea anymore. They were making progress in the right direction, then. Having deployed his emotional and logical reassurances, Davey now turned to the final tactic left in his arsenal.

"If you would really rather not give a speech, Jack, then that's all right," he said appeasingly. "You were my first choice, of course, but I've got some other boys in mind for back up, so I guess I'll just ask them."

Jack dipped his brush into the can of paint by his feet, looking a little agitated at first but saying nothing as he continued to dab at the canvas. Davey waited a moment.

"Which, ah...which one of the fellas did you have in mind?" Jack asked, with poorly-concealed curiosity.

"Well, I was actually thinking about Albert," Davey said, willing himself to keep a straight face. "He's got above-average volume and great comedic timing, so I'm sure he could pull off a decent speech in a pinch."

"Hrm," was Jack's only reply. "Albert, huh?" The paint dabbing became a bit more aggressive.

"Or maybe Elmer," Davey continued easily. "With all of the interest he seems to have in politicians and their doings, he's probably heard a campaign speech or two - or at least I'm sure he's read about one in the papes. It couldn't hurt to give him a shot."

"_Elmer_?" Jack exclaimed, his attempted nonchalance abandoned. He was clearly agitated now.

"Or if they _both_ say no, I thought maybe even Les could do a pretty good job of it," Davey offered, as though it was the most reasonable idea in the world.

Jack finally stopped painting to look up at him. "Your _brother?_"

"Sure," Davey shrugged. "He knows how to make a sale - 'born to the breed,' you said it yourself. If his charm can sell a thousand papes a week, I'm sure it's got to be good for persuading several hundred newsies to - "

"You's playin' with me, Davey, ain'tcha?" Jack growled, comprehension suddenly dawning. "You ain't really plannin' on askin' any of those bummers."

Davey allowed himself to smile a little. "What makes you think that, Jack?" he asked innocently.

The newsie leader scoffed, shaking his head in disgust. "You really had me goin' there," he admitted, as though he wasn't sure whether to laugh or to scowl, and Davey could see that his pride had been pricked a bit.

"So...you'll speak at the rally, then?" Davey asked. "I've managed to convince you?"

"I'll speak at the rally if it'll keep the likes of Albert and Elmer from makin' us the laughin' stock of all New York!" Jack blustered, still looking a bit put out.

"Okay - that's great!" Davey answered brightly, unable to keep himself from indulging in a little good-natured mocking. "I'm glad to hear that you've finally warmed up to the idea." He grinned as the other newsie gave him a friendly shove.

"Shaddup," Jack groused. "You's just as bad as Racer, only worse, 'cause no one would've expected that kinda crazy flimflam comin' from a straight-laced guy like you."

"Crazy or not, you fell for it," Davey pointed out.

"_Shaddup_." Jack combined his repeated directive with a good-natured but forceful punch that had Davey protesting in response.

"Jack! Was that really necessary?" he demanded, wincing as he rubbed his arm.

The newsie leader paused for a moment as if considering the question. Then he shrugged unremorsefully. "Nah," he answered with a grin.

Davey gave him an exasperated look.

"Anyway," Jack said, "now that you's finished with your convincin,' I take it you got some other things you's wantin' to discuss?"

"Yes, actually," Davey answered, drawn back to the task at hand. "I wanted to see if you had any thoughts on our financial situation. Something has to be done about paying for the lodging house fees - "

"Have as many of the fellas go up on the roof as you can," Jack suggested immediately. "And send some of 'em to hang around the deli at the end of the day. If Jacobi's in the right mood, he'll give us the day-old bread for half-off every once in a while. And if that don't work, try the Sisters at St. Peter's - sometimes they's able to help us out when the money is tight and the boys is hungry."

Davey nodded; Race had already implemented the first two suggestions, but they hadn't thought of trying the third.

"If you still ain't able to make ends meet," Jack continued, sounding reluctant, "...then you's gonna have to dip into the Newsie Fund."

Davey looked at him in surprise; only the day before, Jack had been vehemently opposed to even the _thought_ of touching that money. "Are you sure, Jack?" he asked. "I know you weren't happy about the idea of having to use it."

Jack huffed. "Yeah, well I still ain't happy about it, but I ain't gonna be a nitwit about it either." He didn't offer further explanation, and Davey sensibly decided not to press him for one; if Jack was giving his consent, that was good enough.

"Okay," he said. "I'll tell Race you gave him the go-ahead." There was more he wanted to discuss with Jack about the rally - namely, the many ideas he had for the program and some of the logistical details he'd come up with that he thought could be particularly strategic - but he wondered if it would be unwise to try to involve Jack any further at this point. Davey would have appreciated the newsie leader's advice and insight, but he sensed that he drawing near an unacknowledged line that he should be wary of crossing. Jack clearly wasn't ready to jump back into his role as leader yet (though their conversation certainly proved he wasn't willing to relinquish total control, either), and the ambiguity of who was in charge now that Race seemed to have half checked out as well made things just a bit sticky.

So Davey kept his ideas to himself, reasoning that he would run them by Race once the other newsie had returned from his day at the track. Jack had agreed to speak at the rally, and that was victory enough for now.

"Will you be coming back to the lodging house soon, Jack?" he asked, already suspecting the answer but wanting to be sure.

Jack shook his head. "Not for now - I got a free place to sleep here, and Miss Medda's given me another backdrop to finish. Besides, I don't want to take away a spot on the rooftop from one of the other fellas, 'specially with things bein' tight as it is."

It was a logical explanation, but Davey could read between the lines, and he sensed that Jack knew he could, too.

Well, the rally - and Jack's reunion with the other newsies - would come soon enough. Davey was about to start wrapping up the conversation to let Jack get back to his painting when the newsie leader said abruptly, "I actually got a question for you too, Dave, if you's finished."

"Sure, Jack," Davey answered, a little caught off guard. "What is it?"

"Well…" Jack scratched his head. "Last night, I kinda got to thinkin'...what if we was to invite Pulitzer to come?"

"Come...to the rally?" Davey asked, failing to keep the skepticism out of his voice.

"Yeah." Jack nodded. "Give him a chance to speak with the fellas himself, ya know? Maybe if he sees us up close - real faces, real bodies - it'll finally get through to him that we's not just some penniless nobodies playin' strike."

"I...I suppose I could see the advantage of that," Davey agreed reluctantly. Something about the idea didn't feel right, but he couldn't put his finger on why. It was a reasonable proposition - the kind that Davey himself would have usually been on board with since it favored negotiation and building trust rather than defaulting to angry defiance.

Why, then, did it unsettle him so much?

It was probably just his own predisposition to worst-case-scenario thinking, he concluded quickly. There was a reason why Jack was the leader of the newsies and Davey was not.

"If you think it's a good idea, Jack, then I say we give it a shot," he said, pushing aside his qualms. "Were you thinking of sending a written invitation?"

"Nah," Jack shook his head. "Figured I'd go speak to him myself."

That idea somehow alarmed Davey even more, but he didn't say so. "All right," he agreed. "That sounds good. I'll leave a spot in the program for Pulitzer to address the newsies, and you can let me know after you've spoken with him whether or not he's agreed." It was unlikely that the powerful newspaper owner would even deign to have an audience with Jack, let alone the newsies (there was Davey's pessimistic outlook again), but he would let Jack run with his idea. It couldn't hurt, he supposed.

Unless…

"Jack," he said hesitantly, "do you think there's any chance Pulitzer might try to break up the rally if he knows where it's being held?"

A surprised look crossed Jack's face. Apparently he hadn't.

"I'm all for face-to-face diplomacy," Davey said quickly, not wanting to discourage the newsie leader too much, "but I'm just not sure Pulitzer won't take advantage of the goodwill gesture to try to stamp out the strike. It'd be the perfect place for him to make a big statement with all of the city's other newsies being there, too."

"Yeah...guess we gotta be careful of that," Jack agreed, his brow furrowing. He was silent for a moment, and if Race had been present, no doubt he would have made a sarcastic comment about the metaphorical smoke he could smell whenever Jack put his mind to _thinking_.

"What if I don't mention to him where we's gonna have the rally?" Jack suggested finally. "If he agrees to speak, I'll tell him one of the fellas will come by his office to walk him over."

It wasn't a completely foolproof solution...but it was better than giving away their location altogether.

"That would probably help," Davey said warily. He'd been hoping that Jack would have abandoned the plan, but the newsie leader seemed determined to go through with it, and Davey respected him enough not to oppose him any more on the subject. "When were you planning to visit Pulitzer, Jack?"

"Probably tomorrow," the other boy answered. "Miss Medda's havin' a show here tonight, so I gotta hurry and finish this backdrop - plus, I gotta think about what I'm gonna say to the old man." He grinned at Davey. "Probably hard for you to believe, Dave, but we ain't all smooth talkin' and good with words like you. Hey!" he exclaimed, a sly look spreading across his face, "You sure you don't wanna just give the openin' speech for the rally yourself? Whaddya need me for, anyway?"

"Don't say that, Jack," Davey answered, more vehemently than the mild teasing warranted. He _hated_ public speaking - even just the thought of it was terrifying - and if there was one thing he knew for sure, it was that _no one_ was going to get him in front of that crowd of newsies. It was one thing to address the smaller group of Manhattan boys - it was quite another to try to motivate an entire theater full of strangers.

"Okay, okay, calm down," Jack chuckled. "You'd think I was suggestin' walkin' barefoot over hot coals or somethin', not just givin' a little speech."

"It's practically the same thing for me," Davey answered humorlessly, still trying to calm the slight anxiety brought on by the other boy's joking suggestion.

"Well, you don't haf'ta worry," Jack reassured him. "I gotcha covered, alright?"

Davey shot him a look. "Yeah, well...you'd better," he muttered.

Jack only smiled.

"Hey," he said, obligingly changing the subject, "you gonna be seein' Katherine any time soon?"

"I wasn't planning on it," Davey answered. "Why?"

Jack pulled a folded-up piece of paper out of his pocket. "I'm takin' her out to see a show on Saturday before the rally - told her I'd let her know when I figured out all the details." He glanced at Davey. "I was gonna go tell her myself, but with Miss Medda needin' this extra backdrop done before tonight…" he trailed off.

"Sure, Jack," Davey said, holding out his hand for the paper. "I can stop by _The Sun_ on my way home and give Katherine your message." He probably ought to tell the reporter that the date for the rally was confirmed, anyway. He wasn't sure if she was planning to be there or not, and he wouldn't bore her with the details of what was being planned behind the scenes, but at least he could give her the option to attend if she desired. She was just as much a part of the strike as they were.

"Thanks for doin' that, Davey," Jack said gratefully as he handed over the paper with the show's details written down. "I owe ya one."

"We'll call it even," Davey answered, "since you're keeping me from having to speak at the rally. I'm pretty sure I'm getting the better end of the deal." He tucked the paper into his pocket, then instinctively spat in his hand and held it out, surprised to find himself _almost_ not quite disgusted. "You'll update me after your meeting with Pulitzer?" he asked.

Jack spat in his own hand. "Yup. I'll be in touch," he promised with a grin. "Talk to ya soon, Dave," he said.

And the two of them shook on it.


	27. Sheepshead and Stilts

**Disclaimer: **This is a non-commercial work of fanfiction. Anything recognizable from _Newsies_ belongs to Disney and not to me.

* * *

Chapter 27: Sheepshead and Stilts

Race stopped by Jacobi's to buy a sandwich on his way to the track - he figured if he was going to blow what little money he had left from his personal reserve fund, he might as well do it all at once, and even after purchasing lunch, he would still have just enough to gamble with. Accordingly, after leaving the lodging house, he'd headed to the deli and had ordered a salami and Swiss which he began munching on as soon as he left the restaurant.

He made quick work of his lunch, bolting down the food in his eagerness to get to the racetrack, and had just tossed the paper wrapper into a trash bin when he heard an unfamiliar voice calling after him.

"Hey, Race!"

Race turned in surprise to see one of the ex-scabs running up to him. "You still thinkin' of headin' to the track?" the boy asked curiously as he drew near. "I thought I overheard ya sayin' somethin' about it back at the lodging house. Was a little surprised to see ya leavin' in such a hurry, and you sure gave me the slip. I didn't think I'd catch up!"

Race squinted a bit, trying to remember his name. He'd had so much on his mind lately that the two scabs who had joined their ranks had become completely lost in the shuffle. Beyond finding beds for them in the lodging house bunk room, Race hadn't given either of them much thought, and now he was having trouble remembering anything he might have previously learned about the boy in front of him.

"I'm Artie," the newsie said, as if he could read his mind.

"Ah - right," Race answered, a bit impatiently. He hoped that whatever request the younger newsie had would be delivered quickly. He'd left the lodging house to get away from his problems, not to have someone else's problems follow him to the track. "So, Artie, what'cha needin'?" he asked, trying not to let his antsiness show. "There a problem at the lodgin' house?"

"Nah," the other boy replied. "I was actually wonderin' if I could go with you to Sheepshead."

Race hid his irritation. Just what he wasn't looking for - a tag-along.

"I ain't never been there," Artie said with disarming eagerness, "but I heard that you got a knack for pickin' a winnin' horse, and that you's somethin' else to watch. Just kinda wanted to see you in action, that's all."

Race snorted. "Whichever one of the fellas toldja all that was lyin' through his teeth," he said. But inwardly he was pleased, and he found himself thinking that maybe some unexpected company wouldn't be the worst thing in the world. The walk to the racetrack wasn't a short one, and while he'd initially intended to take the time to blow off some of his frustration, he was already beginning to feel a little better…

"All right, Artie," he said briskly. "If you can keep up, I guess I don't mind you comin' along - but I ain't gonna slow down for you, either, so don't fall behind."

He set off at a quick pace, and to his surprise, the other boy gamely fell into step beside him, somehow managing to keep up with Race's longer strides.

"So, what was goin' on back at the lodging house with you and Davey?" Artie asked curiously. "Seems like you was pretty upset about somethin.'"

It was an unusually forward question, and Race's first instinct was to warily brush it off, but he and Davey hadn't exactly been speaking privately, and there had been several other boys lounging around in the bunk room at the time, so it was likely Artie had caught snatches of the conversation and was wondering what was going on. He wasn't a Manhattan boy and didn't know the lodging house convention that any time Jack or Race or any of the other leaders were in conference, you were supposed to go about your business like you hadn't overheard anything that was being discussed, even if you'd picked up on every single word.

"Davey was just givin' me an update," Race explained. "I'm sure this ain't anything you don't already know, but we's been short a leader since the first scuffle at the distribution center."

"I was wonderin' why I hadn't seen him," Artie remarked. "After hearing his speech to us scabs, I thought he was the one in charge of things around here."

Race snorted, feeling a bit of his anger rise again. "Yeah, that was what I thought, too."

"So, you and Davey ain't usually runnin' this operation?" Artie pressed.

"Nah," Race answered. "I ain't the kind that likes runnin' anything, and Davey's only been a newsie for a couple of weeks. Jack's always been the one at the top." He shook his head. "Still don't know why that son-of-a-gun had to take it on the lam the way he did. He left us no choice but to step in."

Artie shrugged. "Well, you seem to be takin' it pretty well," he commented.

Race scoffed. Again, that was because he'd been given no choice in the matter. What else could he have done, let the lodging house fall into shambles? Left Davey to figure out how to lead the strike - and a band of boys he barely knew - alone? Race was no more inclined to leadership than the next fellow, and he found the day-to-day responsibilities tedious and the larger concerns burdensome, but he wasn't going to shirk them just because it was inconvenient or unpleasant at the time.

And that was why Davey's report had made Race so incensed. Jack had been hiding out the _entire time_, not somewhere far away, but within walking distance of the lodging house. And not only that, but he'd been observing the strike remotely, keeping an eye on the proceedings while remaining conveniently detached. His boys had gone hungry, had shouted and sweated in the sun, taking on the strike breakers and scabs and living with the threat of another attack from Pulitzer's goons hanging over their heads. They'd endured the insults hurled at them by the Delanceys and Weasel and the scorn of the occasional passerby. They'd lived with the gnawing fear of knowing that two of their number were missing - Race himself had spent several sleepless nights worrying over Crutchie in The Refuge, and wondering if Jack was all right. All the while, Jack had been sheltered and safe, sitting pretty while his boys were suffering for a cause that _he'd_ convinced them to commit to, a cause he apparently wasn't even willing to commit to himself.

At least he could have sent Race a message letting him know he was all right. But no - he hadn't even bothered to do that.

"Seems like maybe it's been a little harder than you's lettin' on," Artie said, breaking into Race's thoughts.

"Yeah, well, keepin' you bummers in line ain't exactly a walk in the park," Race groused, giving vent to some of his anger. "It ain't just makin' sure you all is fed and not killin' each other - there's other things to consider too, like makin' sure we ain't gonna run out of money and deplete the Newsie Fund…" He shook his head abruptly. "Anyway, it ain't somethin' I signed up for, ya know?"

"Sure, sure," Artie agreed, seeming to take the show of irritability in stride. "'Course it ain't. And on top of that, you got me and Tucker to look after now, too."

That's right, there were two of them. Race was sure he'd met the other ex-scab - Tucker, apparently - at some point, but like Artie, he hadn't made enough of an impression to be remembered. Or maybe Race had just had too much on his mind lately.

"You two ain't been a lick of trouble," he said, a bit more calmly. Jack's truancy wasn't Artie's fault, and although having two extra boys at the lodging house did present the need for some slight logistical adjustments, those adjustments hadn't been difficult. Race had taken the unexpected opportunity of having a sympathetic ear to sound off about some of his frustrations, but he didn't want Artie, or any of the other newsies, to feel bad about the situation or to be stung by Race's ire. That ire was meant for Jack and Jack alone.

"So, why'd you decide to join us anyway, Artie?" Race asked. "We's always pickin' up boys here and there, but usually they's new to the profession. I take it this ain't the first time you been hawkin' headlines?"

Artie shook his head. "Nah - got a couple of years under my belt. Sold a few other places before, mostly in Queens, and then over in the Bronx for a spell. Never joined a lodging house, though - always struck out on my own or stayed at home when I could, at least 'till my pa told me he didn't want to see my sorry face again unless I brought back the money he'd been demandin.'"

"Sounds tough," Race sympathized. He knew all too well the misfortune of an overbearing father. "Your pa out of work?" he asked, thinking of the Jacobs brothers.

"Nah - just wantin' more cash so he can keep drinkin,'" Artie answered with a little shrug. "That's why I thought I'd hang around here awhile - ain't no one waitin' up for me at home." He changed the subject abruptly. "So, how'd you learn your way around at the track?" he asked. "It ain't exactly a close walk, not for a Manhattan boy."

Race went along with the turn in conversation; a good newsie never pressed for the details of another newsie's past or family life, especially if the other fellow was clearly indicating that he did not want to discuss the matter any further.

"You's right, it ain't a close walk," he agreed. "But I'll let'cha in on a little somethin' - I wasn't always a Manhattan boy. Started out sellin' in Brooklyn, in fact."

They continued walking, and Race found his mood markedly improving as he chatted with Artie about his days hawking headlines on the other side of the Brooklyn Bridge. That time of his life hadn't been an easy one, but now that several years had passed and the old wounds had healed a bit, he could look back on those days with an almost-nostalgic fondness and could recall some of the brighter moments as he reminisced.

He was glad that he'd let himself be talked into some company for the long walk out to Sheepshead Bay after all.

* * *

The smacking sound of a jump rope and the chatter of childish conversation greeted the two youngest Becker sisters as they crossed the street to their family's tenement, heading home after another day at school. The slight dip in temperature over the last few days had made it more bearable to be outdoors, and a handful of children were taking advantage of the milder weather to play outside.

Sadie found herself slowing her pace to watch a pair of little girls who were sitting on the ground a few yards away. The older one's face was furrowed in concentration as she attempted to thread a piece of string through a hole in a tin can while the younger one looked on eagerly. The cord seemed to be rather frayed, though, and the older girl was having a difficult time getting it through.

"Abby, give me just a moment," Sadie said quickly, handing her sister the lunch pail she'd been carrying. "I want to see if I can help her." She walked over to where the little girls were sitting.

"Hello," she said, kneeling down beside them. "Is that string giving you some trouble?"

The older girl nodded. "I'm trying to make some stilts for my sister," she said, "but I can't get the string through the hole - it's too small."

Sadie took the twine and the tin can the girl held out to her. "Hmm, that _does_ look like a tight fit," she agreed, examining the badly-frayed ends with a critical eye. "May I try something?" The girl nodded, and Sadie set the can down, taking one ragged end of the string in her fingers and rolling it together as tightly as she could. She then twisted a tiny portion of it back on itself and wound the two strands together, yielding a stiffer (if a bit thick) double cord about an inch long. Grabbing the tin can, she carefully pushed the end of the cord into the hole that had been punched in the can's side, turning and tugging until it was through. The rest of the cord followed easily.

"You did it!" the older girl gasped as Sadie handed the now-threaded can over to her. "Thank you!"

"You're welcome," Sadie smiled. "I work for a tailor, and frayed threads are things I encounter quite regularly - I know how frustrating they can be." She watched proudly as the girl knotted the string and tugged it into place, then took the other end in her hands, employing the same tactic Sadie had used to deftly thread the other end through the opposite hole in the tin can.

"Nicely done," Sadie remarked, rising from her place on the ground and turning to the younger girl who was watching her shyly. "Your sister will have you up on those stilts in no time," Sadie smiled. "Just mind the uneven patch in front of the stairs. It could send you for quite a tumble - I would know." And with a little wink, she turned and walked back to Abby who was waiting for her with a curious look on her face.

"You weren't telling them about the time you fell and almost broke your arm, were you?" the youngest Becker asked as the girls started up the stairs. "Judith's told that story so many times I feel like I was there, even though I wasn't born yet!"

Sadie gave her an amused look. "And what if I was?" she asked. "That area has always been rather hazardous for stilt-walkers. I thought it only right to warn them."

"Mama wouldn't approve of you encouraging such a dangerous pastime in the first place," Abby remarked, sounding prim. "It's a good thing she wasn't there to hear you."

Sadie sighed. It was true: their long-suffering mother would not have been happy with Sadie's abetting of the tin-can stilt diversion. Given Sadie's history of impulsiveness and some of the near-accidents that had resulted, her mother's distaste was not entirely unfounded, but Sadie privately didn't see the harm in a little reckless fun. She knew that she was too old now to be indulging in that sort of thing, but that realization didn't seem to stop her from encouraging it in others not yet hampered by the expectations of age and propriety.

As she and Abby made their way up to the third floor, Sadie wondered if her mother would be at home. She'd arrived at the train station early that morning, back from Boston, and upon returning to the tenement had immediately set about attending to all of the little things that had been neglected in her absence. Restocking the depleted larder would be one of her top priorities, as well as cooking her husband and daughters a square meal, so Sadie was sure a trip to the market would be in order if her mother hadn't already undertaken it.

Reaching the door of the apartment, Sadie unlocked it and pushed it open, letting Abby go in first before following her sister through the entryway and shutting the door behind her. The sound of several women's voices immediately reached her ears, and Sadie tensed a bit as she recognized one of them rising stridently above the rest.

Her mother's sewing group had likely shown up at the Becker apartment to welcome Miriam back home and to catch up on the latest news from Boston. They were a close-knit group of ladies, some of whom had been meeting together for years, and they had proved to be an invaluable source of support for Miriam, whose responsibilities as caretaker to Lilly often limited her opportunities for social engagement.

Philip Becker generally made himself scarce whenever his wife's friends descended upon the apartment, so Sadie wasn't surprised to see that he was out - most likely holed up in his office if he wasn't attending to work around the tenement. She didn't blame him; most of the ladies were actually quite kind-hearted, but there were a few who tended to express their opinions rather forcefully, and chief among them was Mrs. Hart, Miriam Becker's childhood friend, whose voice had immediately reached Sadie's ears upon her arrival at the apartment.

Grimacing, Sadie made her way reluctantly over to the kitchen where the ladies (and Abby, who had joined them) were gathered around the table, drinking tea and enjoying a plate full of pastries, no doubt brought over by the baking-inclined Mrs. Gerlach.

"Sadie!" exclaimed that good woman as Sadie appeared in the doorway, "you're looking well, dear! How was school today?"

"School was fine, thank you," Sadie replied, smiling at Mrs. Gerlach. "I've been meaning to tell you that Margaret loved your meat pie - we shared a piece at lunch the other day, and she deemed it absolutely divine."

The woman beamed proudly. "Margaret's mother has been hounding me for that recipe for _years_," she confided. "Em's a wonderful baker herself, but she never could get the crust _quite_ right on her meat pies. Her lemon cake, though, is to _die_ for!" She motioned to the plate of pastries on the table. "Would you like to try one, Sadie?" she asked. "It's my newest experiment - apple and creamed cheese turnover."

"I'd love to," Sadie answered, "but I actually need to head to work. I only stopped by to drop Abby off and to say hello." She glanced quickly around the circle of women, politely greeting each of them by name as they nodded in response or returned her salutations.

Finally she came to the last woman in the group who had been observing her for the last several moments with an unmistakably disapproving eye.

"Good afternoon, Mrs. Hart," Sadie said stiffly, internally preparing herself for the barbs that she knew were coming.

The lady did not disappoint. "Well, you're a sight," came the cold reply. "Were you rolling around in the dirt like a pig just now?"

Sadie glanced down in surprise and noticed that there were indeed several streaks of dirt soiling the light gray fabric of her skirt, a consequence of her earlier encounter with the little girls outside of the tenement. "I confess I hadn't noticed," she said, blushing a little as she brushed ineffectively at the streaks.

"That's certainly not surprising," Mrs. Hart sniffed. "Perception has never been your strong point."

"Sadie," Miriam Becker broke in uneasily, "I know you need to get to work, but would you please stop by the office on your way out and remind your father that the window screen on the Millers' apartment needs mending?"

Sadie nodded, thankful for the excuse to take her leave. "Yes, Mama." She straightened up, bidding the ladies at the table a polite "good day" and taking the pastry wrapped in a napkin that Mrs. Gerlach pressed into her hands with a word of thanks before turning to walk out of the kitchen. She would need to change before heading to the tailor's, and even though she'd let Mr. Gorham know ahead of time that she would be arriving for work later than usual, she didn't want to be too tardy.

She was about to hurry past the sitting area to the room she shared with Abby when a quiet voice broke into her thoughts.

"Are you all right, Sae?"

Sadie stopped in her tracks. Lilly was lying down in her usual spot on the sofa, but instead of dozing off as she was wont to do in the afternoon, she was looking intently at her sister, her eyes clear and unblinking.

Sadie felt an unexpected rush of emotion. Lilly hardly ever spoke, and when she did, it was usually a mumbled "yes" or "no," rarely full sentences. Half of the time, she seemed to be disengaged from the world around her, her gaze flat and her eyes fixed on some indiscernible object, her mind elsewhere - or perhaps nowhere.

But just now she had spoken, not merely a string of words, but a clear and incisive query that left Sadie in no doubt of the conviction she privately held to despite what others might say - that Lilly understood far more than they gave her credit for, and that she was listening far more often than they thought.

Slowly, she walked over to the sofa and sat down next to the older girl, taking her hand. "Yes, Lil, I'm all right," she said, surprised when the last part of her answer came out sounding a bit tremulous. "I know I shouldn't let Mrs. Hart's words unsettle me," she confided, lowering her voice so that the women in the kitchen couldn't overhear, "and I know that she has good reason to talk the way she does…but I'll admit that it _does _hurt, just a little." She squeezed Lilly's hand. "Thank you for asking, Lil," she whispered.

Her older sister didn't say anything more, and her hand lay slack in Sadie's gentle grip, but her gaze didn't waver, and Sadie leaned over to give Lilly a hug. "I have to get along to work now, Lil," she murmured. "But I'll be back soon. Rest now, all right?" She clasped her sister's hand again, then rose and went to change into a clean skirt.

On her way out, she peeked over at Lilly again and saw that the older girl's eyes were closed and that she seemed to be resting. Satisfied, Sadie retrieved her hat from its hook on the wall. It was looking a little shabby; she hadn't had time to patch it up with all of the other things she'd been busy with lately, and though she'd managed to earn some more money towards the purchase of a new hat, the straw boater that she'd had her eye on at the millinery shop was gone - it had disappeared from the window display several days ago, so someone must have bought it. Sadie had been disappointed; she'd hoped that by the time she was able to save up enough for the hat again, it would still be there, but things hadn't worked out that way. It was a small consolation that Davey had happened to be wearing his blue and white work shirt when he'd showed up for tutoring that evening (Sadie noticed that he wore it often, whether by choice or by necessity, she couldn't tell), so she'd contented herself with the reminder that her money had been put to good use, though inwardly she still lamented the loss of the hat.

Closing the apartment door quietly so as not to wake Lilly, Sadie walked next door to the landlord's office and knocked. As expected, her father was there, sitting at his desk as he pored over the ledgers spread out in front of him. Sadie passed along her mother's message and set Mrs. Gerlach's tart down on the desk - she'd had her lunch already, but her father probably hadn't eaten yet if he'd been hiding out in the office ever since the ladies had arrived, as their meetings _did _tend to go a bit long. Her father gave her a grateful look and promised that he'd get to mending the Millers' window screen that afternoon, and soon after that Sadie took her leave, making her way down the stairs to the street where her lips curved unexpectedly into a smile as she heard the tell-tale clang of a pair of tin-can stilts ringing through the warm mid-afternoon air.


	28. Unexpected Surprises

**Disclaimer: **This is a non-commercial work of fanfiction. Anything recognizable from _Newsies_ belongs to Disney and not to me.

* * *

Chapter 28: Unexpected Surprises

**A/N**: Dedicated to mgsglacier for giving me the boost I needed to put this chapter up even though life is a little crazy right now and posting is one of the first things on my list to go. Your encouragement is always appreciated. :)

* * *

Katherine blew lightly on the freshly-addressed envelope, drying the ink of her neat, flowing script before adding the paper wrapper to the pile sitting on her desk. She must have superscribed at least fifty envelopes already, but she needed to pick up the pace if she wanted to make it to the post office before it closed that afternoon.

Her supervisors at _The Sun_ had reluctantly given her a list of menial office jobs to complete at Katherine's instance that she would rather be making herself useful than twiddling her thumbs in front of a typewriter that she was banned from touching. They had already done her a kindness by not firing her outright when her father's edict had come through, prohibiting any newspaper in town from employing her as a reporter, and Katherine was thankful for that. In quietly allowing her to remain on payroll and to keep her desk on the third floor while simultaneously telling her that she would not be covering any more stories until further notice, _The Sun _had upheld Joseph Pulitzer's command while silently neglecting to carry out its full implications. Katherine wasn't sure why they had done her that courtesy. Perhaps she wasn't the only one who held on to a lingering hope that her father would change his mind once the strike resolved - after all, there was no telling what he might do. But in the meantime, she would show her gratitude to those who had shown her mercy by demonstrating that she wasn't above doing something for them in return, even if it was the kind of work normally done by the lowliest of clerks and not a reporter, even one who had fallen from grace.

So Katherine set about her work with the best of intentions...but to say that she was bored out of her mind would have been an understatement. Addressing the mail was, sadly enough, one of the more interesting tasks she'd undertaken since her unofficial demotion, and she longed to be outdoors, observing the world, asking questions, and chasing down stories.

She hadn't heard anything more from the newsies about their plans for the rally, but true to her word, she'd tried to keep her eyes and ears open to see if there was anything being whispered about what the newspaper owners planned to do about the continuing strike. So far, she'd come across nothing particularly useful, but it had only been one day - she would keep watching.

Hurriedly, the former reporter finished addressing the rest of the envelopes, then carefully put them into a bag before gathering up her things. Bidding her coworkers farewell, she made her way down the stairs, across the lobby, and out onto the street, squinting a bit as the intensity of the bright afternoon sun hit her face and adjusting the bag of envelopes on her shoulder as she checked to make sure that the letters hadn't been jostled too much from her brief jaunt down the stairs.

She was so engrossed in her task and was walking so quickly that she nearly ran into Davey Jacobs who called out her name just in time to prevent Katherine from bowling him over.

"Well, that was a close shave!" Katherine exclaimed as she stopped short, laughing a little in surprise. "What are you doing here, Davey? Is anything wrong?" He looked slightly concerned, but that could have been because he had just narrowly escaped being run over by a preoccupied ex-reporter.

"No, nothing's wrong," he said quickly. "Sorry, I just - I wanted to let you know that we have a day and a location for the rally now - Saturday night at Irving Hall. You're not obligated to attend, of course," he added, "but if you'd like to be there, I know all of us - Jack especially - would be happy if you came." He said the last part with a hint of a smirk, and if Katherine had known him better, she would have called him out for teasing right then and there. But the brief display of humor disappeared as quickly as it had come.

"Speaking of Jack, I have a note for you," Davey said, all seriousness again. He pulled a piece of paper from his pocket and held it out to Katherine. "He would have delivered it himself, but he got caught up in a project at the theater."

"Thank you," Katherine said, feeling a little surge of excitement as she took the paper and tucked it carefully away. It was probably just the details of where she and Jack would be meeting for their upcoming date, but she secretly hoped that he'd included a personal note as well, though maybe that was too much to hope for.

"You look like you're on your way somewhere," Davey observed, eyeing the large bag of envelopes.

"To the post office," Katherine answered. "Though I have to stop at the tailor's on my way there."

"Would you like some help?" Davey asked politely. "I'm headed in the same direction." He held out his hands for the bag, which Katherine gratefully relinquished. It wasn't all that heavy, but once she picked up her clothes at the tailor's her hands would be full, so she was grateful for the unexpected help.

They started down the street, Katherine cordially trying to engage in a bit of small talk and Davey rising to the occasion, though it was clear after several moments that he wasn't predisposed to chitchat. His answers to her casual questions were obliging, but she sensed that there were a million other thoughts running through his head, and she could easily see why Jack considered Davey the brains of the strike. He seemed to be so analytical and focused, and Katherine privately wondered if there was anything that could draw him out of his inner concentration.

He and the charismatic, spirited Jack certainly made for an unexpected team...but there was probably some good in the fact that they were so different from each other.

Despite the slight conversational imbalance, the walk to the tailor's passed by pleasantly enough. Katherine, by mere chance, happened to ask about Davey's life before he'd become a newsboy, and, after he'd given her a brief synopsis of the circumstances that had landed him in the headline hawking profession, a rather lively discussion had ensued on the subject of books, as Davey had made an offhand comment about missing his reading time now that he was no longer in school, and Katherine, being a rather avid reader herself, had eagerly seized upon the one topic that seemed to have sparked his interest. It turned out that they enjoyed many of the same authors (Davey, she noted, was surprisingly well-read given his family's social status), and while the conversation was still rather cerebral in nature, at least she'd managed to get him to open up just a little.

They arrived at the tailor's, and Katherine, quickly checking her watch, noted with satisfaction that they still had plenty of time to make it to the post office before it closed. She pushed the door to the shop open, and Davey followed her in as the merry tinkling of a bell overhead signaled their arrival. At the sound, a pretty brunette with a warm smile came out from behind the curtain of the shop's back room to greet them.

"Good afternoon, Sadie!" Katherine said cheerfully, walking up to the counter. She glanced over her shoulder and saw, to her surprise, that Davey had stopped in his tracks and was staring at the tailor's assistant with an astonished look on his face.

"You work here?" he asked, sounding incredulous.

"You _know_ each other?" Katherine added, her eyes darting between them.

Sadie laughed. "This _is_ an afternoon for unexpected meetings! What a pleasure to have a visit from you both." She smiled at Katherine. "You probably wouldn't expect this, but Davey and I are actually classmates and neighbors as well. In fact, when we first met, he quite heroically saved me from a terrible fall, and I promptly showed my gratitude by dousing him and his favorite shirt in a can of paint!" She gave the aforementioned boy a wink. "But despite all that, he manages to tolerate me somehow, though I truly can't imagine why."

Katherine peered curiously at Davey, and saw, to her surprise, that he looked a bit embarrassed.

"Chivalry is not a quality I would have pinned on you," she remarked drolly. He seemed so pragmatic and focused, and it amused her to think that perhaps he had another side of him that wasn't quite so business-like. "But now that I think about it," Katherine added musingly, "I suppose I could see it fitting."

His embarrassment noticeably deepened. "That's - I'm not - I mean, that's not what really…" he trailed off, glancing at Sadie.

"I think he may be _just_ a bit too chivalrous to contradict my version of the story," the girl observed to Katherine.

"Yes, I think you're right," Katherine played along. "It proves my point, doesn't it?"

"Indeed," Sadie nodded.

The two of them shared a conspiratorial smile, and Katherine stole another glance at the outnumbered Davey who had fallen silent after his failed attempt to clarify the situation and now appeared to be rather flustered.

So it _was_ possible to pull him out of his head every once in a while. Katherine wasn't sure if it was the absurdity of Sadie's story, the unexpected (if slightly joking) compliment, or the saucy wink that had thrown him off balance, but whatever it was had been considerably effective, and Katherine was willing to bet that this wasn't the first time Sadie had rendered her neighbor a bit tongue-tied.

"Well," the tailor's assistant broke in brightly, "since the subject of Davey's valiant nature has been agreed upon, I suppose we should attend to business." She placed a paper-wrapped package on the counter. "Here's your shirtwaist," she said to Katherine. "We hemmed the sleeves like you asked and replaced the button that was missing."

"Excellent," Katherine said, receiving the package. "I'll be back next week for the rest and will pay for everything then."

Sadie nodded. "Of course. We'll have it all ready for you." She smiled, adding warmly, "Thank you, Miss Pulitzer. We're always so grateful for your patronage."

Katherine froze, and almost simultaneously she saw Davey glance at her sharply. Silently, the former reporter berated herself for not having the foresight to anticipate that bringing one of the newsboys along on a personal errand could lead to trouble.

She certainly was going to be in a lot of it soon.

"Is something wrong?" Sadie asked hesitantly, clearly confused but astute enough to realize that there had been a perceptible shift in the room.

"No," Katherine answered, forcing a smile. "Not at all." She nodded to the girl. "Until next week, then."

"I'll see you around, Sadie," Davey added, noticeably disconcerted though his tone was light.

The girl bid them good afternoon, and without another word, they exited the shop.

As soon as the door closed behind them and they began making their way down the street, Davey shot a glance at Katherine.

"Pulitzer?" he asked quietly. "That's not the name that ran in the article for the _Sun_." His voice was calm and controlled, but there was a frigidness in it that Katherine had never heard before.

"Plumber is my byline," she admitted. There was no reason to beat around the bush; the truth was out.

"So you were misleading us?" Davey questioned. "All this time?" When Katherine didn't answer, he shook his head in disbelief. "I don't get it. What's your angle, Katherine?"

"There _is_ no angle, Davey!" she exclaimed, stopping to look at him intently. "_Yes_, I'm Joseph Pulitzer's daughter! _Yes, _I'm an heiress, and _yes_ my father's connections in the newspaper world have followed me throughout my entire career. But I don't work for my father, and I certainly haven't been championing anything other than the newsboys' cause!"

Davey rubbed the back of his neck, clearly uncomfortable. "I just - I don't understand," he said. "Why didn't you tell us? Especially knowing who we were going up against?"

"Would you have given me a chance to run with your story if I had?" Katherine shot back. "You were all ready to write me off as it was! If you had known I was Pulitzer's daughter, wouldn't that have made you even more quick to dismiss me?"

Davey didn't answer.

"Look," Katherine began, attempting to sound a bit less defensive, "I understand if this is a shock, and even if you feel like I've betrayed you somehow. But I promise you, I have no loyalty to my father when it comes to the newsboy strike. I'm with you one hundred percent. You have my article to prove it - I wouldn't have written it if I didn't believe in the strike."

Davey nodded, tacitly acknowledging the truth in her statement but still looking conflicted.

"If that's not enough to convince you," Katherine continued, softening her voice even further, "think of everything I've lost. My connection with my father is precisely what has made this situation so risky for me. He's blacklisted me from every newspaper in town, Davey! They've kept me on at _The Sun_, but all I'm allowed to do is receive manuscripts and address the mail." She motioned to the bag of envelopes slung over his shoulder. "Do you think I'd be out running errands like this if I was still a reporter with a story to chase?"

Davey sighed. "No," he answered, finally finding his voice. "You wouldn't." He pinched the bridge of his nose. "Sorry, I -" Katherine waited as he struggled to gather his thoughts. "It's just a lot to take in." He gave her a searching look, a multitude of questions clearly on his mind, but only one of them coming to the forefront.

"Does Jack know?" he asked quietly.

Katherine shook her head. "He doesn't."

"You should tell him," Davey immediately replied. "He deserves to know."

The thought of having to reveal her identity to the newsie leader was daunting, but she knew that Davey was right.

"I'll tell him soon," she promised, trying to sound as agreeable as possible. She had no intention of breaking the news to Jack until after the rally - he had enough on his mind already and knowing about her connection to Pulitzer would only complicate things - but Davey didn't need to know that.

As if sensing her evasiveness, the newsie in question held her gaze for just a moment longer, but thankfully he didn't press her any further. "I think telling him soon is a good idea," was all he said before looking away. "He needs to hear it from you."

"And he will," Katherine assured him, secretly relieved that Davey seemed to have no inclination to run off and share the startling revelation with Jack himself. She was still in a tenuous position, but it certainly wasn't as bad as it could be. If she could count on Davey's silence, she would have a bit more time to figure out how exactly she was going to broach the topic with Jack.

Suddenly remembering that she had an errand to complete, Katherine began walking again, and after a brief moment of hesitation, Davey followed her. "So," Katherine said shrewdly, "I'd imagine we both wouldn't mind a change of subject." She gave him a curious look. "Care to tell me what really happened with regards to Sadie and the paint?"

To her satisfaction, the sudden shift in conversation had its desired effect.

"Oh...well, I guess it really wasn't all that different from how it sounded," Davey admitted. "Except for the heroic part. I didn't really save Sadie. I mostly lectured her about being unsafe."

Katherine hid a smile. That sounded about right. "But she _did_ spill paint on you and your favorite shirt?"

"She did," Davey confirmed, "but she neglected to add that she replaced the shirt and that the entire thing was an accident. If anything, it was my fault for startling her."

"Well, it didn't sound like she blamed you at all," Katherine observed. "She's always struck me as a kind-hearted girl."

"She _is_ a kind-hearted girl," Davey agreed in a tone slightly more fervent than mere concurrence called for. He paused for a moment before adding, "I really don't understand her sometimes."

Katherine was intrigued by his disclosure. "What do you mean?" she asked.

Davey hesitated. "Sorry," he said abruptly, shaking his head. "I actually don't know what I meant by that." He gave Katherine a forced smile. "Sadie just surprises me a lot. That's all."

It was a clear signal that he was unwilling to discuss the subject further. If they had been better friends, Katherine probably would have taken the liberty to pry (she'd made her living, until most recently, by sniffing out stories, so she knew how to get even the most reluctant subject to divulge more than they intended to), but she didn't want to undo what little progress she'd made in gaining Davey's trust, and she certainly needed his goodwill at this point since she was counting on him to keep her secret.

There was, however, more than one way to skin a cat.

"Are you acquainted at all with Sadie's family?" Katherine asked, abandoning the direct approach in favor of a more circuitous route.

"A little," Davey answered, seeming to relax at the neutral question. "I've met her youngest sister, and her father - he's the landlord of the tenement where we live."

In spite of his reticence, he began to cautiously elaborate, and Katherine gradually prompted him to continue, slipping in a well-placed question whenever he seemed to hesitate or withdraw. By the time they arrived at the post office, Katherine knew about Sadie's other sisters, her penchant for climbing trees and burning baked goods, and her offer to tutor Davey while he was out of school due to his family's predicament. (She also thought that she had a fairly good idea of what it could be about Sadie that mystified Davey so much, but this was only conjecture on her part).

And so it was that Katherine Pulitzer found herself not entirely displeased with the afternoon's events as she bid farewell to Davey after they'd delivered the letters and parted ways. She had Jack's note in her handbag to read when she got home and their date on Saturday to look forward to. Her identity had been unexpectedly revealed, but there was no immediate danger of anyone else finding out, so things would blow over soon enough. She had been tiring of the menial tasks she'd volunteered to undertake now that she was no longer a reporter, but at least she knew she hadn't lost her touch for drawing people out...

...and if nothing else, she'd indubitably proved that books weren't the only subject that could get Davey Jacobs talking.

* * *

**A/N: **Katherine's secret identity is never really addressed in the play outside of her confrontation with Jack, but I figured that the rest of the newsies must have found out about it at some point (because by the time we get to "Once and For All," no one's batting an eye at Katherine having the keys to Pulitzer's cellar). You'll get to see the other newsies' reactions in an upcoming chapter, but I thought it would be interesting to have Davey be the one to get hit with the news first. Perhaps this is a bit of canon-bending, but it's not technically canon-contradicting, so… :)

Thank you for reading! If you have a minute, please leave me a review to let me know what you thought of this last chapter. Your feedback is greatly appreciated.


	29. Behind Locked Doors

**Disclaimer: **This is a non-commercial work of fanfiction. Anything recognizable from _Newsies_ belongs to Disney and not to me.

* * *

Chapter 29: Behind Locked Doors

**A/N**: The first part of this chapter is dedicated to the _Guest Reviewer_ from Chapter 6 who suggested the possibility of Abby being Les' date to the rally (I'm not sure if you're still reading this, but if you are, I hope you enjoy this and would love to hear what you think!)

* * *

"Abby...hey, Abby!"

Abigail Becker, engrossed in her book, pointedly ignored the voice that had been calling her name with irritating frequency for the past minute or so and deliberately took a bite of her apple.

"Abby!" came the voice again as the girl crunched loudly to drown out the sound. "I know you can hear me, Abby."

_Crunch, crunch, crunch, crunch - _

"Abby!" A hand reached over and rudely pushed the book away from her face.

"What, _Les_?" Abigail snarled, finally looking up to glare at the interloper. "Can't you see I'm _busy_?"

"You're always busy," he replied, not affected in the slightest by her irritation. "I never see you without your nose in a book!"

"It keeps me from having to deal with people like you," Abby muttered, resigning herself to the fact that she wouldn't be able to get back to reading until she'd heard Les out. Their lunch recess at school was short enough even without any interruptions, so she might as well get the conversation over with so she could get back to what she really wanted to be doing. Giving her classmate a disgruntled look, she said sourly, "What do you want?"

"I've got a favor to ask," Les answered grandly. "Though come to think of it, maybe I'm actually the one _doing_ you a favor - you'll see when I explain."

"Well, get to it," Abby snapped. "I want to read."

"Okay, okay, hold your horses."

Les settled himself into the desk across from Abby, making himself comfortable before continuing. "So, it's like this: You know how all the newsboys have been on strike lately?"

"Yes. And?"

"Well, we're going to be holding a rally tomorrow night. Newsies from all over the city are invited, and some of the Manhattan fellas are bringing guests - you know, their girls and such." Les smiled brightly. "So, I was wondering if you'd like to come with me as my date."

Of all the things Abby would have expected, this proposition certainly hadn't been one of them.

"Why are you asking _me_?" she asked, her eyes narrowing suspiciously. "I thought Sally was your girl."

"Oh, well…" Les shrugged. "That's old news. She told me this morning that the new boy in class has caught her eye, so she's setting her cap at him now. Seems like all the girls in class are stuck on him." He shrugged nonchalantly, but Abby could see that he was a bit embarrassed.

Truth be told, she was surprised at this recent development. Nearly half of the girls in their class had been swooning over Les since the commencement of the newsboy strike. His sudden fall from grace - or rather, Sally and the others' falling out of infatuation - had probably been rather bruising to his ego, but then again, Abby reflected, such an abrupt transfer of affections wasn't really out of character, given the temperament of the girl in question.

She _almost_ felt sorry for Les. He couldn't be expected to know that Sally never stayed interested in the same boy for long and that the rest of her posse followed her lead when it came to where they directed their attentions. Still, that being said, there was no way she was going along with him to this rally, especially not when he'd clearly only asked her as a last resort.

"I'm sorry to hear that, Les," she said, trying to sound at least a little sympathetic, "but I'm not interested in going. You'll be fine."

"But I told the newsies I'd be bringing my girl along!" Les exclaimed, sounding a bit desperate.

"So, tell them she couldn't make it," Abby suggested, failing to see why telling the truth was such a difficult concept. "They'll understand." She turned back to her book.

For a moment, it was silent. Then, Les rose from the desk beside her. "I kind of figured you might need some extra persuasion," he said. He walked over to his desk and pulled something out of it, then returned to where Abby was sitting and dropped the object down on her desk with a thump.

"_The Adventures of Huckleberry Finn_, limited edition print," Les said smoothly. "You come with me to the rally, it's yours."

Despite her slight irritation at his attempt to bribe her, Abby found herself eyeing the book. It was beautifully bound and appeared to be slightly worn, but whoever had owned it before had taken good care of it, and she was already imagining it sitting on her bookshelf at home among her modest personal collection.

"Where did you get this?" she asked, giving Les a wary look. "You didn't steal it, did you?"

"No-ooo," Les answered, looking completely innocent (this made Abby even more suspicious). "I wouldn't steal something like this."

"Then how did you get it?" Abby pressed.

"We've got all sorts of things lying around at home," Les explained vaguely. "It was just there."

Abby stared at him a moment longer, hesitating a bit before her growing desire to own the book overcame her sneaking suspicions that Les had not come into its possession by any honest means. She'd done her due diligence by asking; if he was going to lie about it, that was none of her business.

"Fine," she said, snapping her own novel shut. "I'll go with you to this rally. But I have to ask my parents first. They might not let me go out so late at night, so if they say no, you're out of luck."

"Tell them we'll be going with David," Les suggested, looking relieved that his well-chosen methods of incentivizing had done their job. "He's the one organizing the whole thing anyway, and he's such a stickler for safety and order. Nothing crazy will ever happen when he's in charge - sad to say."

The thought was slightly reassuring. Abby approved of Les' older brother; he was serious and thoughtful and always took the time to ask her what she was reading whenever he came over for tutoring. If she and Les would be going to the rally under David's supervision, her parents would be much more likely to give their consent.

"Well, I'll see if I can persuade them," she said. "But no promises." The bell announcing the end of lunch recess rang, and she reluctantly watched as Les tucked _The Adventures of Huckleberry Finn_ under his arm and turned to walk towards his own desk. "I can't believe I just agreed to go to a newsboy rally with that nuisance of a Jacobs brother," Abigail muttered to herself.

"Woah, Abby," Les protested, turning on his heel. "That's a little unfair to David, don't you think?"

Abigail stared at him, surprised at both his acute sense of hearing and his completely outrageous misunderstanding of her statement. "If it wasn't obvious, I was talking about _you_," she clarified.

"Really?" Les managed to actually sound surprised. "A nuisance?" He cocked his head as though bewildered. "Most people would say that my brother's the more bothersome of the two of us."

Abby couldn't tell if he was joking or not. "More bothersome _how_?" she asked.

"David's always pestering," Les answered as though that explained everything. "And he makes mountains out of molehills and never lets anyone have any fun."

"He's probably also the only reason you're still alive," Abby observed tartly. "I bet you'd last all of two minutes on your own before being hauled off to jail or squashed flat by a carriage." She rose and picked up her apple core to throw it away, deliberately breezing past Les as she did so.

He really _was_ a nuisance, and she didn't relish the thought of having to attend the rally with him much less pretend to be his girl so that he could save face with the other newsboys.

But books were Abigail Becker's first love, and she had already determined (parental permission pending) that she would willingly endure the temporary misery of a date with Les Jacobs if it meant the lasting satisfaction of making that copy of _Huckleberry Finn_ hers.

* * *

Jack paced up and down the hallway outside of Joseph Pulitzer's office. The carpeting felt strange beneath his feet, and the dark wood panelling on the walls made the corridor seem narrower than it really was.

He could never work in an office. It was too small of a space, too confining, too far away from freedom and from the feel of the wind on his face…

...too much like a place with barred windows and locked doors where the walls had ears and the air reeked of hopelessness.

Jack shivered involuntarily.

Maybe this wasn't such a good idea, he thought. It had seemed like a stroke of genius at the time - give Pulitzer a chance to state his side of the story while compelling him to be face-to-face with the very children he was exploiting - but now that Jack was actually here outside of the man's office, he was starting to doubt the decision for the very first time.

He probably should have given more heed to Davey's silent apprehension. Jack hadn't been fooled by the other newsie's relatively quick agreement to his idea of inviting Pulitzer to the rally. Davey was as bad at hiding his feelings as he was at doctoring up the headlines, and his hesitation had been immediately apparent despite his verbal affirmation of the plan.

Well, it was too late for second-guessing, now.

Jack forced his feet to stop pacing.

How long would they keep him waiting? he wondered. Pulitzer's secretary - a rather tall lady with a sprightly step and an accent strong enough to curdle coffee - had warned him that her boss was meeting with the mayor and some important visitors and could be occupied indefinitely. Jack had told her he would wait. Her expression seemed to soften at his determination, and he'd thought a note of sympathy might have been in her voice as she'd risen from her desk, bidding him to follow her upstairs. She'd led him down the hallway and had paused outside of Pulitzer's office, instructing him to wait while she assessed the state of things inside, and promising to do her best to catch her boss' attention.

That had been several minutes ago.

Jack scratched his head, impatient and antsy. Just as he was about to start pacing again, the door opened, and Pulitzer's secretary poked her head out.

"Mr. Pulitzer will see you now," she said, beckoning him in to the office. Jack strode through the door, barely registering the sound of it clicking shut behind him.

Joseph Pulitzer was standing in front of his desk, and Jack immediately saw at the periphery of his vision several other men off to the side - one of them looked like the mayor, but the other two he couldn't identify. It made Jack a little nervous, but he shook it off.

It was showtime.

"Afternoon, gents," he said jauntily, giving everyone assembled a cocky nod. He grinned at Pulitzer. "Nice place ya got here, Mr. Pulitzer," he remarked, looking around as he took in the office. "A little dark an' dreary for my taste, but still - real nice." When the man didn't answer, Jack motioned to the row of high-backed chairs positioned in front of the newspaper owner's desk. "You mind if I sit down?" he asked.

Pulitzer looked irked at the impudence, but he nodded stiffly. "Sit if you'd like, Mr. Kelly," he answered, "but I don't suspect that our conversation will take long."

Jack settled himself into the closest chair, grinning as he realized that it could swivel.

"What exactly did you wish to speak to me about, Mr. Kelly?" Pulitzer asked, folding his arms across his chest as he watched Jack rotate back and forth in the chair with a look of distaste.

"Oh, I just came here with an invitation," Jack answered easily, stopping to look at the newspaper owner in the eye. "Ya see, Mr. Pulitzer," he began, "several hundred of your employees is gonna be havin' a rally tomorrow to discuss some of our objections to how you been runnin' things lately around here. I thought maybe you'd want to make an appearance and state your side of the story, maybe meet a few of the fellas yourself." He shrugged agreeably. "We could talk this thing out, ya know? We's reasonable - you seems like you's reasonable - "

"Don't make the mistake of presuming that you know anything about me, boy," Pulitzer cut in coldly. "It reveals your ignorance as well as your naivete."

"Of course, of course," Jack agreed, not even flinching at the unexpected change of tone. "Duly noted, Joe." He tapped the side of his head with his finger, as if willing himself to remember. "But seein' as you don't want us presumin' anything," he continued, leaning forward in his chair, "you see the smarts of my invitation, right? If you come speak at the rally, we could clear up this little misunderstandin' and figure out some kinda compromise that'll help us both." He gave the newspaper owner an agreeable grin. "Whaddaya say, huh?"

"What makes you think I would bother negotiating with a bunch of grousing children?" Pulitzer asked disdainfully. "Last I checked, you newsboys were less than a dime a dozen. For every one of you who goes on strike, I can find another one willing to sell for the right price. My coffers are deep enough to employ scabs indefinitely...but I'd wager you stubborn fools can't go more than two weeks without working."

"Ah, but see, _there's _where you's missin' the point," Jack contended, wagging a finger in the newspaper owner's direction. "You may be scrapin' by right now on the back of scabs with only the Manhattan boys on strike, but once we get the rest of the city's newsies on board, you ain't gonna be able to find no one to deliver your papes." He settled himself back in the chair, confidently resting his arms behind his head. "You see, Joe," he continued, "you may be the owner of _The World_, but us newsies are the ones who really run the joint, so you's gonna have to start listenin' to us soon. You ain't the only one holdin' the cards here."

Pulitzer chuckled. It was a humorless chuckle, devoid of mirth. "Is _that_ really what you think, Jack?" he said, shaking his head. "You're even more naive than I thought." Walking over behind his desk, he held up a copy of _The New York Sun._ "You and the newsboys may have gotten lucky with this article," he continued, "but rest assured, you won't find a reporter in town willing to cover the rally. And if it's not in the paper…" he tossed the copy onto his desk, " - it _never_ happened."

Jack scoffed. "You sure you ain't the naive one of the two of us?" he asked. "You may think you got this whole town under your thumb, but there are some of us here who still have a backbone and ain't gonna answer to you."

"Ah…" Pulitzer said, looking pleased. "Now _that_ is an interesting theory. Perhaps you speak of that feisty reporter who wrote your first article, a Miss Katherine...Plumber?"

"Yeah, she's one of 'em," Jack nodded shortly. "She ain't your lackey, just like the rest of us ain't."

"She most certainly is _not_ my lackey," Pulitzer agreed, walking over from behind his desk to the nearest high-backed chair. "But what you may have failed to realize is that she is, in fact, _my daughter._" He swiveled the chair around, revealing an ashamed-looking Katherine, who had been sitting concealed in the turned-away chair the entire time.

Jack's heart dropped.

"Surprised?" Pulitzer smirked, raising an eyebrow. He clucked his tongue, shaking his head condescendingly. "And who's the naive one now?"

Katherine took a step forward. "Jack - " she pleaded.

He held up his hand to stop her, his emotions roiling and his mind quickly retreating into a defensive posture.

_How could she? How __**could**_ _she?_

"And since we're on the subject of surprises," Pulitzer continued pleasantly, with the air of a puppeteer pulling strings, perhaps now would be the perfect time to introduce our second surprise guest." He called over his shoulder, "Mr. Snyder, if you please."

Jack felt terror surge through him as The Spider loomed out of the shadows where he had been hiding.

"Hello, Jack," he sneered.

Jack turned to run, but suddenly the Delanceys were there, restraining him and pushing him back towards Pulitzer who smiled approvingly and towards the menacing hulk of Snyder whose eyes glittered with a malice that Jack remembered only too well.

"As you can see," Pulitzer said smugly, "I actually _do _hold all the cards here. A snap of my fingers...and off to The Refuge you go! I'm sure you've missed it, and Mr. Snyder is _eager_ to have you back." He paused to let that sink in, and Jack felt his heart pounding as his eyes darted between the newspaper owner and the warden.

"However," Pulitzer continued, his words calm and calculating, "since you _were_ so kind as to offer me an invitation to your rally, let me in turn offer an alternate scenario to you." He looked Jack in the eye. "If you go to the rally, address the newsboys, and denounce the strike, I'll ensure the eradication of your criminal record. You'll be free to go where you please - and in fact, I'll even pay for a train ticket for you to get as far away from here as you care to go." He gave Jack a condescending smile. "It's quite a benevolent offer, and you'd be wise to take it."

Jack hesitated. What the man was proposing was betrayal, complete and utter betrayal of the newsies and the cause. The Refuge loomed large...but the devastating thought of what he'd have to do to stay out of it was almost more frightening than the threat of the juvenile jail itself.

"I see you're unconvinced," Pulitzer noted, clearly beginning to tire of this game of cat-and-mouse. "If my offer doesn't seem agreeable to you, Mr. Kelly, it's straight to The Refuge for you. You can be reunited with your disabled friend…and I'll make sure the rest of the strike's organizers will join you there soon. You may think you've played your cards right, but I already know where the rally's being held, and I've got the names of your two remaining men-in-charge. I'll have police waiting to arrest them as soon as the rally's over."

Jack's mind was frantic. How had the man gotten word of the rally's location? And even stranger, how did he know Davey and Race's names and their roles in the strike?

_Katherine,_ he thought furiously. It _had_ to be the ex-reporter who had tipped Pulitzer off. She was the only one who interfaced with both the newsies and the newspaper owner, so she must have been the one to spill the information.

"Perhaps you need a little more time to think this decision over," Pulitzer said, breaking into Jack's growing anger. "The cellar will be the perfect place for you to reflect." He rested his hands on his hips, again smiling his humorless smile. "I'll look forward to chatting with you again, Jack, when you've had time to come to your senses."

Then he snapped his fingers. "Gentlemen," he barked, "take him away."

Jack felt himself being pushed in the direction of the door, a different door than the one he'd entered through. He leveled a glare in Pulitzer's direction, but the newspaper owner had already turned away and was sitting down at his desk, lifting his spectacles to his eyes as he reached for a stack of papers.

As Jack passed by Katherine, he caught sight of her anguished expression and saw that her eyes were teary and red. But he hardened his heart. She had betrayed him. The damage was already done.

"Jack!" the woman cried out, her composure breaking as she rushed towards him. "_Jack_!" Her hand caught his shirtsleeve, but Jack shook her off, not even glancing in her direction as he was shoved roughly down the stairs.

The cellar was dark and cold, and as Jack stumbled down the last few steps, he could feel the dampness seeping into him as his feet touched the floor.

Morris and Oscar shoved him over to a canvas-covered object, which turned out to be an old printing press, but - to Jack's surprise - they didn't do much more than pound aggressively on the machine and threaten him. Pulitzer had probably instructed them to intimidate the newsie leader but not hurt him, because any visible sign of injury would certainly raise suspicions at the rally. It was a small favor, though Jack's anger and despair at being cornered and trapped were growing and he almost would have welcomed a fight, even if he would have been clearly outnumbered.

Eventually, the Delanceys left, flinging a few more taunts over their shoulders and sneering in Jack's direction before climbing back up the stairs and shutting the door loudly behind them. Jack let out a frustrated snarl, pulling his newsboy cap from his head and smacking the printing press as hard as he could with it. He was about to draw back and kick the machine when he thought the better of it and took a shuddering breath instead, pulling his cap back on top of his head.

Time seemed to stand still. Jack paced the cellar, his anger too hot and his thoughts too frantic to settle.

Eventually, though, he had to slow down. He wasn't sure how long he'd been locked away or how long Pulitzer intended to keep him there, but the man would be demanding an answer sometime soon, and Jack knew that he needed to be ready.

He slowed his restless pacing, coming to stand in front of the printing press and then hoisting himself up to sit on its flat, table-like surface.

What choice did he really have?

If he refused to speak at the rally and denounce the strike, he'd be sent to The Refuge immediately, and Pulitzer and his goons could still show up at the rally to arrest Davey and Race and the others (there was nothing to stop them from doing that, really). They'd all be trapped there, and the strike would die anyway with no one to lead it. Some of the older boys might be able to get through the ordeal all right - they'd been in The Refuge before and knew how to keep their heads down. But the younger ones were a different story, and Race...well, Jack wasn't sure if Race could handle another visit to The Refuge. Talkative, cheeky Les would get eaten alive; Davey, with his cautious defensiveness, would hold up better, but the experience would likely scar both of them. And their parents would be distraught.

Jack shuddered, hunching over to rest his arms on his knees. It was hopeless. Either Pulitzer and his goons would show up at the theater to arrest whatever newsies they could get their hands on...or Jack himself would speak against the strike, keeping his boys out of The Refuge but ensuring his own permanent banishment in the process. He might as well take a train to Santa Fe, or to wherever he could find that was furthest away from New York, because he knew that he wouldn't be welcomed at the lodging house after betraying the newsies again.

Everything was falling apart, and no matter what he decided to do now, the rally - and the strike - were doomed to failure. So he had to cut his losses. He had to be the one to take the fall so that the rest of them could be safe.

He would take the offer and denounce the cause. He would ruin the carefully made plans for the rally. He would stop the strike in its tracks.

His boys would be confused and upset.

Spot would be furious.

Davey would never trust him again.

...and Race? Race was definitely going to kill him.


	30. Painting on the Rooftop

**Disclaimer: **This is a non-commercial work of fanfiction. Anything recognizable from _Newsies_ belongs to Disney and not to me.

* * *

Chapter 30: Painting on the Rooftop

The afternoon sun beat down on Davey's back as he finished nailing the last wooden sign together, pausing for a moment to sit back on his heels and assess his progress.

_Not bad for a kid who's never really handled a hammer, _he thought to himself. The signs were pretty scrappy looking, but they'd get the job done, and they were sturdy, which was the most important part.

Now it was time to paint.

Davey got to his feet and walked over to the corner of the rooftop where he'd left the painting supplies. Philip Becker had generously allowed him to use the tools and building materials stored in the landlord's office and had even donated a nearly-finished can of paint to Davey so that he didn't have to purchase his own. The landlord's beneficence meant that this entire project - including the scrap wood which had been procured from their initial meeting - hadn't cost Davey a dime, and he was grateful for it.

Picking up the paint and a pair of brushes, Davey brought both items over to where the signs lay on a drop cloth, kneeling down so that he could carefully pry open the can. He was wearing his paint-stained shirt and an old pair of pants just in case, but he still didn't want to have any careless accidents. Dipping a brush into the can, Davey dabbed off the excess, then, with careful strokes, began to slowly paint. It was surprisingly relaxing, and he could see why Jack sometimes escaped into his backdrops at the theater - though of course this kind of painting was nothing like the beautifully rendered scenes that resulted from Jack's vivid imagination and natural aptitude.

Davey had never considered himself to be an artist in any sense of the word. He did have an appreciation for the aesthetics of things, but he'd never really tried creating much himself, mostly because there was never time - or money - for that kind of diversion. Still, he'd enjoyed the challenge of working with his hands over the past hour or so, and though the signs were far from perfect, he felt a small sense of accomplishment at seeing something that had only been an idea in his head actually come to life as the result of his handiwork.

Maybe that was why the rally was so important to him. It had started out as just a thought, but it had quickly grown and had taken shape...and now it was finally happening. And Davey had gotten to bring it together from the ground up, everything from casting the vision for what the rally would accomplish to recruiting the necessary help to thinking through the logistical details of the traffic flow at the theater…

He let out a small, self-deprecating laugh as he carefully finished the "h" on the "Manhattan" sign. _You're definitely the only person who would get excited about something like that. _It was probably better that Race and Jack hadn't had time to listen to him sound off about his ideas; he definitely would have talked their ears off, and they would not have liked him the better for it.

Davey sighed. He'd have to remember to watch himself going forward; he'd sensed that he was getting comfortable with his newfound acquaintances rather quickly, and he'd caught himself opening up a lot more than he normally would. The fact that he'd rambled on to Katherine - someone he barely knew - only the day before was surprising and slightly concerning. Of course, she was a reporter, so she was good at drawing people out, but he really shouldn't have gone on like that. He'd learned from previous experience that his innate propensity to talk too much could be tiresome to other people, and these were friends he wanted to keep, so he'd have to be a little more careful in the future.

Having resolved this in his head, Davey finished the final letter on the first sign and had just moved over to start on the next one when he heard the telltale sound of footsteps coming up the stairs, and he found himself surprised to realize that he knew whom they belonged to before even turning around.

His determination not to ramble was about to be put to the test.

"Good afternoon, Davey!" came Sadie's cheerful voice as she stepped onto the rooftop. She had an apron over her dress and a small basket in her hand. "You look like you've been productive!" she exclaimed, drawing near. "What have you been up to?"

He smiled at her enthusiasm. "I'm just working on some things."

"What kinds of things?" Sadie queried, peering at the drop cloth.

"Oh, well...newsie things," Davey elaborated unhelpfully.

(He really wasn't cut out for this not-rambling business).

"Are these signboards?" Sadie asked, kneeling down to examine his work more closely.

"Yes," Davey answered reluctantly. "They're for the rally. We'll place them in the auditorium so that the newsies know where to seat themselves. There will probably be latecomers trickling in throughout the night, and it will be easier for them to find their places if there are signs directing them where to go. It'll also keep the different neighborhoods together so that they can pass questions to their leaders when we open the floor for discussion."

"The newsboys are having a rally?" Sadie asked, sounding a bit confused.

"Oh...I didn't tell you about the rally?" Davey gave her an apologetic look. "Sorry - I guess I just forget whom I've talked to about these things. It's been on my mind so much lately that I…" He stopped himself, then backtracked to her original question. "Yes, we're planning to have a rally tomorrow night at Irving Hall. It will be a chance for the rest of the city's newsies to meet with us to discuss things, and hopefully we'll be able to get them to join the strike."

(There. That had been reasonably succinct, right?)

"So that's what you've been up to!" Sadie exclaimed. "I'd been wondering what the latest news was on the strike."

"Things have been at a standstill for the last few days," Davey admitted. "But I'm hoping that if we can convince the rest of the newsies to join forces, we'll be able to get the newspaper owners to finally listen. It's easy enough for them to replace us right now - they can draw newsies from the other neighborhoods to scab - but if they aren't able to find _anyone_ to deliver the papers, they won't be able to ignore us any more."

"How are you planning to convince the other newsies to commit to the cause?" Sadie asked.

"Well, we want to give them a chance to raise any questions or concerns first," Davey explained. "There's got to be a reason why they haven't gone on strike yet even though we've heard that the prices have been raised all over town. Maybe they aren't sure how to go about it, or they think they don't have a chance of success. I'm not really sure, but I hope that we'll be able to lay some of those fears to rest by hearing them out. Then we'll reiterate why the strike is so important. At the very least, we want to get the Brooklyn newsies on board - they're the key. If they join up, the rest will follow."

"That makes sense," Sadie remarked. "You must be expecting a big crowd if you're meeting at Irving Hall."

"We're hoping to pack the place out," Davey acknowledged. "But that's not the only reason we're holding the rally there. Jack knows the owner of the theater, and she's being kind enough to let us use the facility free of charge. She's even going to perform a few numbers at the beginning of the night while the newsies are arriving. The free entertainment may draw some of them in, even if the actual purpose of the rally doesn't."

"Strategic incentivization is wise," Sadie nodded sagely. "I can see you've thought this through."

"Well...it's been a group effort," Davey said. "But yes, I've tried."

The girl glanced down at the drop cloth. "You must have a lot to take care of before tomorrow," she observed.

"We're in good shape, I hope," Davey answered. "I've just got to finish these signs and get them over to the theater, then check in with Jack to see if he's ready for his opening speech and make sure I've got the schedule in order for Race - he's been the newsies' head for the last week and a half, and he knows quite a few of the leaders from the other parts of the city, so if he agrees, he's going to be our master of ceremonies for the night. Hopefully it will help the visiting newsies to see a familiar face right off the bat."

"And what will your role be?" Sadie asked.

"If I've done everything right beforehand…" Davey shrugged, "hopefully just watching things unfold from the sidelines." He smiled a little. "I'm not really the kind who likes to be front and center, but I know Race will be able to hold the crowd's attention, and Jack's a good speaker."

"I seem to remember you not being too bad at motivating the newsboys yourself," Sadie remarked.

He'd forgotten that she'd overheard part of his impromptu speech at the distribution center.

"That...that was different," he said. "I didn't really have a choice. Somebody had to say something."

Sadie made a noncommittal sound, brushing a piece of lint off of her apron. After a moment, she asked gently, "Are you nervous at all?"

The question caught Davey off guard. "Nervous?" he repeated. "I..." He trailed off, and Sadie waited patiently as he paused, considering her question.

"I guess I'm not really sure," he confessed finally. "I know we have a good plan, and that we've done everything possible to make sure the plan goes smoothly, but there are so many variables involved that aren't in our control. Brooklyn, for one thing - they've promised to attend the rally, but that doesn't mean they'll join the strike, and if they don't, we'll have a hard time getting anyone else on board. And Jack's another unknown. He ran off shortly after the strike, and he hasn't come back to the newsboy lodging house since. He's afraid of something, and I'm not sure what. I'm counting on him to show up and address the crowd, but if he doesn't for whatever reason...well, it won't look good if Manhattan's own leader doesn't speak in support of the strike he started."

He paused, trying to push the thought away from his mind before continuing soberly, "There's also a chance that the police - or people sent by the newspaper owners - could come and try to break up the rally. We're meeting on private property, so hopefully that will protect us somewhat, but with newsies all over the city knowing about the event, it's possible that people we _don't_ want to come will get wind of it. I'm not sure what we'll do if the bulls show up again. And I'm worried about everyone's safety, especially Les.' He got hurt in the last scuffle, and I can't help feeling like it was my fault somehow..."

Davey trailed off, giving Sadie a sheepish look. "So...yeah," he said quietly, "I guess to answer your question, I am nervous. There's still so much that has to fall into place, that sometimes I can't help wondering if this is all just a really crazy idea." He fell silent, realizing that he'd failed to curtail himself and had been going on about his feelings too, something that certainly didn't need to be discussed in such superfluous detail.

"Sorry," apologized. "I'm sure you weren't asking for that long of an explanation. I get too caught up in these things sometimes." He smiled self-consciously. "Thanks for listening to me ramble, Sadie - you didn't have to do that."

"It wasn't rambling," Sadie replied. "The rally is a great idea, and the concerns you raised make perfect sense."

"You think the rally's a great idea?" Davey asked, surprised. "I mean...I think it is, too, but ...you don't think it sounds just a little absurd?"

Sadie laughed. "Haven't we established that it's _good_ to do something ridiculous every once in a while?" she asked, giving him an amused look. "You should know by now, Davey, that I'm the last person who would ever talk you out of an outlandish idea, let alone an idea as well-conceived as this one."

He felt himself relaxing, whether from the humor or from the indirect praise, he couldn't tell. "Well...I appreciate the vote of confidence," he said. "And really, I didn't mean to talk your ear off. I know I can go on about things for a while if I'm excited and someone lets me." He laughed a little. "In fact, one of the newsboys asked me recently if I ever stop talking. I should have told him that I'm a hopeless cause."

"Well, being misjudged and criticized for things that people don't understand about us is something we can count on in life," Sadie observed with an uncharacteristic edge to her voice. Davey looked at her in surprise as she added, "You can't let words like that stop you."

The unusually weighted statement had come out of nowhere, and her sudden severity seemed completely out of place when he'd been only trying to make a joke, but before Davey could think of how to draw out an explanation, the brief moment of gravity was gone.

"Do you want some help on your signs?" Sadie asked, her lighthearted tone returning as she changed the subject. "I've only come up to gather some of the vegetables - our tomato plant seems to like the sunshine we've been getting lately and it's been quite prolific - but I don't have much on my agenda for the rest of the afternoon." She set down her basket.

"Thank you, but I couldn't let you do that," Davey answered, shaking his head.

Sadie stopped halfway through rolling up her sleeves. "Why ever not?"

"Well, it's not your job, for one thing," Davey began uneasily. She'd already done him the service of listening to his thoughts, and he certainly was not going to ask her for another favor when he was already indebted to her in so many ways. "Besides," he added, "the paint is messy, so you'll get dirty..."

Sadie looked amused. "I'm already in my work clothes," she said, "and in case you've forgotten, I _have_ been known to paint things from time to time." She gave his shirt a meaningful glance. "But maybe I've misunderstood the _true_ reason for your hesitation, Davey. Perhaps it's that you don't trust me near you with a can of paint?"

"No!" he said quickly. "No, that's - that's not - "

"I can assure you, I'm _much_ more steady on my feet when no climbing is involved," Sadie continued, playfully overriding his stammered objection. "And if you'd like, I'll promise to stay several feet away from you just to ensure that no accidents happen, though seeing that I've already ruined the shirt you're wearing once over, I suppose a little more paint couldn't hurt."

Davey fell silent.

Perhaps seeing that her teasing had failed to convince him, the girl changed her tactic. "Please, Davey," she cajoled, giving him a rather winning smile, "let me help you. Your signs will be finished much faster if you have an extra set of hands, and I'll have the satisfaction of knowing that I did something worthwhile with my afternoon instead of merely loafing around. This rally is important, and it will make me feel like I've helped to advance the cause of the strike, even if only in a small way."

"You make it sound like _I'm _the one doing you a favor," Davey muttered, unsure of what else to say and incapable of resisting her any longer.

Sadie looked pleased at his capitulation. "I suppose in a way you are," she said softly. "I can't change the world, but I can certainly paint letters well enough if I put my mind to it." Despite the facetiousness of her statement, there was something serious in her tone again (though this time it sounded more earnest than sharp), and Davey found himself wondering at these unexpected glimpses of solemnity. He generally thought of Sadie as lighthearted and carefree, but clearly there was a depth to her that either she didn't show often or that he had completely missed.

"If you truly don't want my assistance, I won't force you to accept it," she said, bringing Davey back to the conversation at hand. "I only wanted to assure you of my willingness to help and to do away with any thoughts you might have had of being already too far in my debt to accept my offer or some other ridiculous notion like that. To my understanding, we've already settled that matter."

It was embarrassing how well she read him.

"Only if you have time," Davey said, finally giving in. He suspected that, despite her claims to the contrary, she wasn't one to 'loaf around,' so it was likely that she would be sacrificing _something_ to help him out, though she seemed to be intent on assuring him that she wasn't.

"Let me gather the vegetables first," Sadie said, "and once I've taken them down to Mama, I'll come back to help you paint." She rose, gathering her basket and stepping carefully around the signs to walk over to the corner of the rooftop where the Beckers had a small collection of vegetable plants.

Davey found himself watching her for a moment as his thoughts returned to the surprising realization that there was more to Sadie Becker than met the eye. He'd thought he'd had her pegged at first - in fact, he'd written her off as careless and impulsive after their initial meeting and had secretly thought her rather empty-headed besides. But then she'd surprised him by replacing his shirt...and he realized that she'd been surprising him ever since.

Apparently, he'd been very wrong about her.

Reaching over to retrieve his brush, Davey resumed his slow and methodical painting. But he found his thoughts occupied now by matters other than the strike.

Sadie finished picking the vegetables and took them downstairs, returning as promised to help with the painting, and as she began working alongside him, he found himself wanting to know more about her. Her manner was unaffected and open, but despite this, she seemed to disclose very little about herself, though he wasn't sure if this was by nature or by deliberate choice.

"So…how has your day been so far?" he asked tentatively. "You didn't have to go to the tailor's?"

Sadie shook her head. "Not today; I brought home some alterations to work on when I have time, but I won't be going back until Tuesday afternoon." She paused for a moment, then said, "Speaking of the tailor's, I know this probably isn't any of my business, but I clearly made some kind of unintentional gaffe yesterday when you and Miss Pulitzer came to visit the shop."

Davey tensed. Katherine's recently-revealed identity had been in the back of his mind ever since he'd found out about it, but since there was nothing he could do about the situation, he'd pushed it aside to focus on the rally preparations. "It wasn't your fault," he said quickly. "I just wasn't aware she was a Pulitzer, that's all."

"Her mother used Mr. Gorham's services in previous years," Sadie explained. "So I suppose that's the connection between their distinguished family and our humble shop. Miss Pulitzer is always generous with her business and with her referrals, and we're grateful to her for it. I really hope I didn't cause her any distress - I didn't know she went by another name."

"She writes under the byline 'Katherine Plumber,'" Davey explained. "And you couldn't have been expected to know that."

"Katherine Plumber!" Sadie exclaimed. "The one who wrote the article in _The Sun_ about the strike?"

"The same," Davey affirmed.

"So she's a heiress _and_ an accomplished reporter, besides," Sadie said admiringly. "What a combination! And now it all makes sense to me - I'd been wondering how the two of you were acquainted, but it really wasn't my business to ask."

"It really wasn't your business to mislead Katherine about my part in the paint incident either," Davey added, sounding significantly more chiding than he had intended.

"Why...was wrong with how I told it?" Sadie asked in surprise.

"You made me sound more generous than I actually was!" Davey protested. "You shouldn't say things like that, Sadie, especially when you know that's not what really happened."

"It's not?" Her wide eyes were an act, he was sure of it. "I don't recall...perhaps you'd like to refresh my memory on the subject?"

"I startled you, and you accidentally spilled paint on my shirt," Davey stated flatly. "There probably could have been some more foresight when it came to your own safety, but otherwise the entire thing was unintentional. There was nothing noble that I did - if anything, I was slightly rude to you. And you did replace my shirt. You should have at least mentioned that."

"Hmm…that _is_ a markedly different account from what I shared." Sadie paused for a moment, as if considering his reprimand. "But," she added brightly, "it's a bit insipid, and I think I prefer my version better." She smiled cheekily at him, then went back to painting.

"I don't understand you," Davey muttered after a moment.

Sadie paused again. "Understand me?"

"I mean, I don't understand why you insist on being so kind to me," he clarified, aware that he was no longer filtering his words but in too far to backtrack at this point (and a part of him really _did_ want to know). "I've done nothing for you, but you've replaced my shirt, bought a paper from me, applied yourself to something you don't even enjoy so that I don't have to get behind in class, let me take your odd jobs around the tenement, and just this afternoon you've helped me with my signs, and you've listened to me ramble, and…" he broke off. "Sorry," he said quickly. "It's just...it makes no sense...to me."

"Davey," Sadie set down her brush, sounding gently exasperated, "I _told_ you, I like helping people, and I like making new friends. It's really not as grand or as magnanimous as you make it sound. Just ask Margaret. She'll tell you how eagerly I approached her when she was new in town; the poor thing probably thought I was a little over-zealous in trying to make her acquaintance! But now we're good friends, so things turned out all right." She gave him a reassuring smile. "And if buying a paper and listening to you talk about a fascinating subject is all that it takes for _us_ to be friends, then I'd consider that to be a worthy investment."

She turned away to continue painting. "Besides," she added as she picked up her brush, "enthusiasm is a good look on you." She carefully began the next letter. "It would be a loss for that to go away, simply because some people don't have the sense to listen to your rambling."

She'd managed to hone in on the very thing that he'd been agonizing over the most, and the astounding realization that in that moment he had been both understood and accepted caused Davey to find himself at a loss for words. He knew that he should say _something_ (to cover up the staggering effect of her statement if nothing else), but he couldn't manage to do it. So he sat there silently for a moment, embarrassed and pleased and a little confused, trying to think of what to say in response and failing to come up with an answer.

Being thrown off balance by Sadie wasn't anything new. She'd had that effect on him from the very first moment of their acquaintance, and he'd never really liked the feeling. But something about it felt different today.

He wasn't sure why this was the case. And the lack of clarity was a bit disconcerting.

Davey shook his head, trying to reign in his scattered thoughts. He didn't have time to be ruminating on these kinds of things or letting his confusion distract him from the task at hand. He was in the middle of helping to lead a strike. He was juggling the responsibilities of feeding his family and watching out for his brother. He had a union to run and a rally to plan. He didn't have time to be thinking about anything else.

It was only that he'd been caught off guard, he reasoned. He wasn't used to anyone other than his family showing such unearned kindness towards him, but Sadie by her own admission was outgoing by nature. She was only being herself and trying to reassure him of her friendship, and it really shouldn't have surprised him or mattered to him so much...

But it _did_ matter.

And it made Davey happy. Irrationally, needlessly happy.

It wasn't a feeling he experienced very often. It wasn't a feeling he would have expected to stumble across in the middle of leading a strike. But the feeling was there nonetheless.

Davey pinched the bridge of his nose, suddenly aware that his mind had wandered - again.

_Focus_, he told himself sternly. _The strike - and the rally - remember?_ Lost in his thoughts, he'd stopped painting, and now he quickly brought himself back to the present, forcing his mind to attend to the task in front of him (and trying to ignore the voice inside his head warning him that he had better get a handle on himself soon or he could be in for a bit of trouble).

Soon enough, all of the signs had been finished.

"Not a bad bit of work," Sadie remarked, surveying the completed project. "They're readable, at least."

"And that's all that matters," Davey added, having regained his ability to speak after several moments of conflicted silence. He gave her a grateful look. "Thank you. For your help, and for listening. It means a lot to me, Sadie. Really." It wasn't the most eloquently-articulated expression of appreciation, but the understanding smile she gave him in response seemed to say that she knew he meant it.

"Will you be going along to the theater with these soon?" she asked, gesturing to the signs.

"I'm going to let them dry for a while," Davey answered, "but I do need to head back to the lodging house to check in. Do you think your father will mind if I leave them up here?"

Sadie shook her head. "Not at all. I'll mention it to him tonight so he's aware." Bending down, she began to pick up the can of paint and paintbrushes. "I know you need to get going, so I'll clean these up and take them back to the office," she stated.

Davey was about to protest, but before he could say anything, something small and shiny fell out of Sadie's apron pocket, landing with a muffled thud on the drop cloth. The girl straightened up, painting supplies in hand, then took a step towards the stairs, clearly unaware that she had lost it.

"Wait, Sadie," Davey scooped up the object. "You dropped your…" he glanced at it, "you dropped your thimble!"

She turned in surprise, looking at the small metal piece in his hand. "Oh! That must have fallen out of my apron. I was mending some things before I came up here." She glanced down at the painting supplies in her hands, then back at Davey. "Would you do me a favor and throw it away for me?" she asked. "I wasn't going to use it again - it's got a rather bad crack in it - and my hands are full. I meant to toss it earlier after I finished my sewing, but I must have forgotten. You don't mind, do you?"

"Of course not," he replied. He had some small pieces of wood to discard downstairs anyway. "I'll take care of it."

"Thank you," she smiled. "I'll see you around, Davey."

"Goodbye," he called after her as she left.

As the sound of Sadie's footsteps faded away, Davey glanced down at the thimble in his hand. It was made of copper and was encircled by a plain double band with the tiny initials _S.C.B. _etched across it. A noticeable crack had formed at the base of the thimble, and from a practical standpoint, it made perfect sense why Sadie had wanted to throw it away...but practicality aside, there was something quaintly pleasing about it.

Davey hesitated for a moment, then stuck the thimble in his pocket.

* * *

Before heading to the lodging house, Davey stopped at his family's apartment for a moment to see how Les was doing with his class assignments. His younger brother had been giving him the cold shoulder ever since being sent back to school (no doubt correctly suspecting Davey's part in the decision), but this afternoon Les seemed a touch more agreeable, and he'd even made his way through most of his academic tasks by the time Davey arrived to look them over.

Leaving Les with a few words of approval, Davey hurried out of the apartment and down to the street, setting off in the direction of the lodging house. He hadn't spoken with Race since the gambler had returned from Sheepshead, and Davey wanted to run through some of the details of the rally with the interim newsie leader so that he would have time to make any adjustments necessary before the event the following night.

He was still several blocks away from the lodging house when he caught sight of a familiar figure running quickly in his direction.

"Elmer!" Davey exclaimed as the younger newsie skidded to a stop in front of him, breathing hard. "Are you all right? What's wrong?"

Elmer huffed and puffed, trying to catch his breath. "Nothin's wrong," he wheezed. "But you gotta come back to the lodging house quick! Everyone's been tryin' to find ya!"

"What's happened?" Davey asked anxiously as he hurried along beside the younger newsie. "Is it Jack? Race? One of the other boys? Something with the rally?"

Elmer shook his head. "Nah, Davey," he gasped, "it ain't any of that."

"Then what?" Davey demanded, bewildered as to what could have possibly sent the other boy in such a state of agitated urgency and fearing the worst.

Elmer, still panting, didn't answer right away, and if Davey hadn't seen the genuine look of concern in his eyes, he would have thought that the other newsie was stringing him along just for dramatic effect. But as they hurried around the corner and the lodging house came into sight, the pieces suddenly began to fit together as Davey recognized the solitary figure standing in the street just outside.

"Am I imagining things," he asked, glancing at Elmer for confirmation, "or is that…?"

The younger newsie shook his head. "Nah, you ain't seein' things, Davey," he confirmed as they hurried towards the visitor.

"Brooklyn's here."

* * *

**A/N**: Any Spot Conlon fans out there? He'll be making an appearance in the next chapter.

Also, we've officially passed the 100k word mark (whaaat?). This story was originally supposed to be 30 chapters _in total_, but clearly that's not how things are going. Sorry...I hope you're not getting tired of this yet. If you've stuck with me this far, I am grateful, and I especially want to thank those of you who've encouraged me to keep scribbling away on this. Your kind reviews have been a huge part of why I've even gotten to this point, and your feedback always makes my day...so, thank you very much :).

And onward!


	31. Brooklyn and Manhattan

**Disclaimer: **This is a non-commercial work of fanfiction. Anything recognizable from _Newsies_ belongs to Disney and not to me.

* * *

Chapter 31: Brooklyn and Manhattan

**A/N**: This chapter is dedicated to ChibiDawn23 who wanted to see some interaction between Davey, Race, and Spot. There will be more coming later on, but in the meantime, I hope this little bit will suffice!

* * *

Spot Conlon was even shorter and even more menacing than Davey had remembered him.

After following the harried Elmer back to the lodging house, Davey greeted the leader of the Brooklyn newsies with as much composure as he could muster, then invited Spot inside to sit down while they waited for Race to arrive. They made their way up the stairs to the bunk room, where Finch and Sniper (who were lounging about) quickly made themselves scarce once they caught sight of the well-built Brooklyn newsie.

Davey ushered Spot over to the table at the back of the bunk room, offering him a chair before sitting down himself.

An awkward silence descended. Spot sat, silent and still, while Davey resisted the urge to fidget and make useless conversation. He didn't know exactly why the Brooklyn leader had decided to show up unannounced and unaccompanied, and Spot hadn't deigned to explain, but perhaps he would be more forthcoming when Race arrived.

Davey sent up a silent prayer for Specs to be swift and immediately successful in locating the gambler. Elmer had disclosed that the bespectacled newsie had headed off towards Race's usual selling place as soon as Spot had arrived, but there was no telling how long it would take for the other newsie to actually be found.

Several minutes passed. Spot barely moved a muscle, but Davey's anxious energy was growing, and he knew that if this continued it was likely that he'd end up blurting out something soon just to break the silence. Thankfully, before he got to that point, the sound of Race's light footsteps was heard on the stairs, and the interim newsie leader appeared in the doorway.

"Sorry to keep ya waitin' fellas," Race apologized, walking over. He spat in his palm and shook with Spot before settling himself into the remaining chair. "Didn't know you was gonna pay us a visit this afternoon, Spot," he remarked frankly. "What's eatin' ya?"

The casual mode of address surprised Davey. He'd assumed that Race was as intimidated by Spot as the rest of the Manhattan newsies; after all, the gambler hadn't volunteered to go to Brooklyn when Jack had been assigning destinations at the deli. But clearly there was some kind of camaraderie between them, because Spot didn't balk at Race's rather blunt question.

He didn't answer the question, though, either.

"Last I checked, you ain't the one in charge here, Tony," he observed, in a tone that was both affable and intimidating. "Where's Jacky-boy run off to?" Davey and Race exchanged a glance.

"He's gotten caught up in a few things," Race answered vaguely. "But he's around."

"That ain't good enough," Spot answered, shaking his head with that same oddly intimidating agreeability. "I didn't come all the way here for you not to tell it to me straight."

He was testing them, Davey thought. He must have gotten wind of Jack's absence somehow and had come over to see for himself if the reports were true. _Birds,_ he thought to himself, remembering what Spot had said to him and Jack when they'd gone to visit him in Brooklyn. _All around the city, chirping in his ear. _He wasn't sure exactly what kind of infrastructure was behind Spot's intelligence network, but he didn't doubt that it was extensive enough to have picked up on the truth - that Jack Kelly hadn't been seen with his boys since the first official day of the strike.

"I'll give you another chance," Spot said, sitting back in his chair and still sounding amiable despite the threat underlying his words. "Where's Jack?"

Race hesitated.

"He's been staying at Irving Hall," Davey broke in reluctantly. Spot gave him a shrewd look, and Davey selected his next words carefully, knowing that he was walking a fine line, but hoping that the voluntary disclosure would go a long way to establish some much-needed rapport with the Brooklyn leader. "Crutchie's arrest hit him hard, and he needed some time to think things through. He's still very much for the strike, though, and he'll be giving the opening address at the rally tomorrow evening."

He paused, watching Spot closely to see his reaction to this divulgence. At first, the Brooklyn leader's face seemed as impassive as ever. Then Spot smiled.

It was a rather disconcerting smile.

"Well, looks like the Walkin' Mouth's got more than half a brain after all," he remarked aloud, as though the revelation surprised him. He settled more comfortably into his chair. "Honesty - that's what I like to see, though you might've been able to fool me earlier, Tony, if I didn't already know all your tells."

Race shrugged, not in the least discomfited, and Davey found himself wondering at the ambiguous blend of familiarity and wariness with which the two boys regarded each other. What kind of history did Race and Spot share? Why had Spot referred to Race by his given name? How did he know the gambler's tells? And, despite this, why didn't Race seem to be afraid of Spot in the slightest? Davey didn't know the answers to any of these questions, and he couldn't even begin to puzzle them out.

"So," Spot said, leaning forward and resting his arms on the table, "I came here to talk about this rally you's gonna be hostin' tomorrow. I gave my word that Brooklyn would be at the next event, so we's gonna be there, but I got my concerns." He pinned Davey with a sharp look. "Security. How do you know the cops ain't gonna show up to haul us off to The Refuge?"

Davey resisted the nervous urge to reach up and adjust his necktie (he really ought to break himself of that habit, seeing as he hardly wore said article of clothing these days). He cleared his throat instead.

_Breathe,_ he told himself. He knew the answer to this question. He'd thought this through.

"The theater is private property, so from a legal standpoint, it will be much harder for the police to disrupt the rally," he began. "We've also tried to keep the location under wraps - our boys were told not to speak of it on the streets and to ask the newsies from other neighborhoods to do the same when they went to invite them to the event. The only people who should know about the rally are those we've invited. I suppose that if an outsider looked closely, seeing all of the newsies heading to the same place could appear a little suspicious, but that's probably inevitable. We're hoping if people trickle in throughout the night, it won't be so noticeable. As an extra safety precaution, though, we'll have a few of our boys hidden down the street from Irving Hall to keep an eye on things - if they notice anything suspicious during the rally, they'll warn us right away."

Spot didn't seem impressed, but the answer must have satisfied him, because he immediately fired his next question. "And what about Jack?" he asked. "You's givin' the most important speech of the night to a newsie who ran on his boys the first time a goon came at him with a club." The pointed criticism in his voice was clear. "I ain't sure how I feel about that."

"Jack started the strike," Davey answered firmly, doing his best to match Spot's mettle. The Brooklyn leader was only looking out for his own; Davey was attempting to do the same. "He may not have been able to see it through the way we would have liked him to, but he's committed to the cause, and I have no doubt that he's loyal to his boys as well." Davey met Spot's scrutinizing gaze. "I know things aren't looking the best right now," he conceded, "but I trust Jack. And he's going to give that opening speech."

He wasn't sure whom he'd surprised more with his resolute statement - Race, or himself. Spot was the only one who appeared to be unmoved. But the Brooklyn leader must have again been satisfied, for he proceeded to his next question.

"You seem to be pretty confident in this plan of yours, Mouth," he observed. "You got brains - and it shows. Got some guts, too." His stare once again bore into Davey, more searching and intense than before. "But my birds tell me you ain't been hawkin' headlines for more than two days. With Jacky out of the picture, you's the one master-mindin' this strike, and you got everything ridin' on this rally of yours, but you's barely even a newsie yourself." He paused, his eyes narrowing in challenge. "How do I know you got what it takes to win?"

Race looked like he was about to say something, but Davey spoke up.

"You don't," he admitted frankly. "And you're right, I'm not really much of a newsie - I'd be pretty lost if Race wasn't here to keep me grounded." Davey gave the gambler an appreciative nod. "But even though I haven't been a newsie long," he continued, returning his attention to Spot, "I know what it's like to be on the receiving end of injustice and to have it threaten everything that's important to me. I know what it's like to be pushed to the breaking point. And I've got a family at home who's depending on my income, income that I lost when this strike began. The stakes are high for me, too." He paused, thinking for a moment of his father.

_I hope I'm making you proud, Dad. _

"You may not know me well enough to know if you can trust me yet, Spot," Davey continued, feeling the conviction in his voice grow, "but I am _not_ giving up on this strike. Whatever happens at the rally tomorrow night, I'm going to see it through to the end." He looked Spot in the eye, returning his stare for a moment before adding quietly, "I didn't come this far to lose."

Once again, Spot barely moved a muscle, his expression as impenetrable as before, his gaze sharp and unwavering. Davey was mentally preparing himself for another stare-down (it seemed like years ago that he'd found himself locked in one with Katherine at the deli when all of this had just been beginning, and weeks since he and Oscar Delancey had been sizing each other up at the distribution center), but to his surprise, Spot deliberately looked over at Race, then back at Davey, and when he did, there was something a little less challenging in his eyes.

"You'd better stand behind those words of yours, Mouth," the Brooklyn leader said, getting to his feet. Oddly enough, the underlying tone of his words was more agreeable than threatening this time. The discrepancy between the actual statement and the tenor of its delivery was odd combination, but Davey supposed it was just one of Spot's many methods of keeping the upper hand: juxtaposing threatening words with a friendly tone (or in some cases, doing the opposite) to keep enemies or uncertain allies guessing. The technique was unquestionably effective. But Davey felt slightly proud of himself. He'd kept his head and hadn't gotten rattled by Spot's questions. He'd adequately spoken to the concerns that had been raised and had stood up for himself when needed. And hopefully he'd managed to earn the Manhattan lodging house a little more respect in Spot's eyes.

"You headin' back?" Race asked, clearly more to make conversation than anything else, as everything in the Brooklyn leader's bearing said that he had completed his business, short as it had turned out to be.

Spot gave a curt nod in response. "I'll see you bummers tomorrow at the rally." He spat in his hand and shook first with Race and then with Davey. "Expect Brooklyn to be there, loud and clear." And without waiting for an answer, he turned and stalked calmly out of the bunk room and down the stairs.

"That son-of-a-gun wasn't expectin' you to show up," Race remarked quietly, giving Davey a little shove as they watched Spot leave. "You got some nerve, Dave."

Davey laughed. "Maybe. But I'd be happy not to ever have to repeat that experience again. Once Jack's back, I'm leaving all of the dealings with Brooklyn to him."

Race snorted. "Once Jack's back, we's leavin' all of the dealin's with _anybody_ to him."

"Hopefully that day is coming soon," Davey agreed. He assumed that Jack would come back to the lodging house after the rally; he'd be forced to rub shoulders with his boys at the event, and after hearing him speak in support of the strike, Davey had no doubt that the Manhattan newsies would welcome their leader back with open arms.

"Sure hope so," Race sighed, not sounding quite as optimistic. "If Jacky decides to take it on the lam again, though, I ain't responsible for what happens after that." He shook his head. "You's gonna get stuck leadin' the boys all by yourself, Davey, unless you's quick enough to ditch me with 'em first. Don't say I didn't warn ya."

"If you've been persistent enough to stay with things this long, Race, I doubt you'd ever make good on that threat," Davey answered, wanting to convey that he understood the tenacity the last few weeks had demanded of Race before proceeding to bandy as usual. "I do appreciate the warning, though, and I'll plan on making a quick retreat and sticking you with the boys if it really comes to that."

Race grinned. "You better stand behind those words of yours, Mouth," he parroted, comically exaggerating Spot's friendly-yet-sinister voice.

Davey snickered at the mimicry. After the intensity of the last few days, it felt good to laugh.

"I still can't believe Spot came all the way over from Brooklyn just to ask a few questions," he said. "That's a long walk for something so brief."

"Pretty sure the questions was partially a front," came Race's knowing reply. "He wanted to hear the answers, sure...but Spot's the kind that's always pickin' up on more than just the words a fella says, ya know? And he's real protective of his boys. Probably wanted to make sure we wasn't gonna be leadin' 'em into a trap set by Pulitzer's goons or wastin' their time with a poorly-planned rally." He grinned at Davey. "Seems like he underestimated you just a little."

"Well...don't speak too soon," Davey cautioned. "I haven't pulled it off yet."

Race shrugged. "Since we's on the subject of the rally," he said, getting down to business, "did'ja have anything else you wanted to talk about before tomorrow? I know you probably got a lot of things runnin' through that big brain of yours."

"Now's as good a time as any," Davey said, trying to temper his excitement at being able to finally share his plans with the other newsie. He was sure that Race wouldn't be particularly keen on hearing all of the details, but Davey's recent conversation with Sadie on the rooftop had reassured him that maybe not _everyone_ was as opposed to his excited rambling as he'd assumed. Besides, as master of ceremonies, Race was going to have an important role at the rally, and apprising him of these details really _was_ important.

"You might want to take a seat, Race," Davey grinned, his smile only half-apologetic. "I'm about to talk your ear off."

* * *

**A/N**: Thanks for reading! Virtual carrots for the plot bunnies and reviews for the writer are never required but are always appreciated ;)


	32. Working it Out

**Disclaimer: **This is a non-commercial work of fanfiction. Anything recognizable from _Newsies_ belongs to Disney and not to me.

* * *

Chapter 32_:_ Working it Out

The conversation with Race ended up taking longer than Davey expected, which meant that there wasn't time for him to take the signs he and Sadie had painted over to the theater before dinner, but he figured he'd have all of the following day to get that done, so he wasn't worried, and he found himself feeling uncharacteristically lighthearted as he made his way home from the lodging house with the setting sun at his back.

He felt good about the way things were going. The unknown factors were all still there, and the worries that he carried continued to weigh on him, but he knew that he wasn't endeavoring to pull off the rally alone. Having the support of several people converge on the day before the event was serendipitous timing, and it had done much to lift his spirits. He was grateful for that. Even the unexpected visit from Spot (and the ensuing interrogation) had served its purpose; Davey knew now that he was prepared, as prepared as he would ever be, and if the stoic leader of the Brooklyn newsies had been satisfied with his answers, well...maybe the rally really _did_ have a chance of convincing the rest of the city's newsies to join the strike.

The walk back to the tenement was pleasant, and Davey took the stairs to his family's apartment two at a time, eager to be home after a long but satisfying day. He opened the door and was greeted warmly by his mother who ordered him to go wash up quickly so that he could partake of the dinner she'd just set out.

Meals at the Jacobs apartment were usually rather quiet affairs (as three out of the four members of the family were not inclined to enthusiastic outbursts), but that night the conversation flowed freely around the table, and the excitement for the following day was evident, Davey and Les both looking forward to the rally (albeit for very different reasons), their mother unabashedly proud, and their father quietly approving. It was the kind of family dinner that they hadn't enjoyed in a while, and in the midst of a particularly trying season, it was an especially meaningful gift.

After the meal had been enjoyed and the kitchen area cleaned up for the night, Mayer and Esther retired to their room for the evening, Les sprawled out on the brothers' shared bed with his schoolbook, and Davey settled down at the table to sort through a box of miscellaneous items that Mr. Becker wanted organized. It had been the easiest job on the landlord's list of tasks, and Davey, anticipating that he'd need something to do to keep his mind off of the upcoming rally, had jumped at the chance to make some money while putting his hands to an endeavor that was relatively undemanding.

The next half-hour passed by quietly, both of the Jacobs brothers engrossed in their respective tasks. Then Les abruptly sat up, snapping his book shut and declaring that he'd done all of the reading he could handle for the night. He walked over to where Davey was working and gave the box a curious glance before settling himself into a chair next to his brother.

"How was your day at school, Les?" Davey asked, looking up from his work.

"Rather grand, I'd say," Les declared.

"I see..." Davey answered cautiously, thinking that the younger boy sounded far too chipper to be sincere. "Is Sally happy that you're back?" He'd since given up on trying to convince Les that being nine-almost-ten years old was still too young to have a sweetheart and figured that the only possible explanation for Les' enthusiasm was the chance that he'd gotten to spend more time with "his girl" at school.

Les looked thoughtful. "I don't know if 'happy' is the word I'd use," he said, "but that's irrelevant at the present time. The fact of the matter is, Sally and I are old news. She's moved on, I've moved on...and we're both the better for it."

The disclosure surprised Davey a bit, but then again, he wasn't an expert on the subject of romantic relationships between nine-almost-ten year olds. "Well...I guess that's good if it's worked out for the best on both sides," he offered hesitantly. Les didn't seem to be too cut up about the abrupt end to his short-lived fling, so maybe he was beginning to see reason. "It sounds like you're handling it well."

Les shrugged. "It could be worse. At first I was worried, because I'd already told the rest of the newsies I'd be bringing my girl to the rally. I can't lose face with the fellas, you know? But it turned out all right after all, because Abby's agreed to go with me instead."

"Wait - hold on, Les," Davey gave his brother a look of disbelief. "You invited _Abby_ to the rally? Abby..._Becker?_"

"Do you _know_ any other Abbys, David?" Les asked, a bit sarcastically.

"Les, Abby is our landlord's _daughter!_" Davey exclaimed. "You can't just go asking her on dates and expecting her to step out with you like that!"

"Why not?" Les asked. "She _said _yes, and Mr. Becker's nice. I doubt he'll mind. Besides," he added, "you can't talk. You're always hanging around Sadie, and she's our landlord's daughter, too."

"I am _not_ always hanging around Sadie, and _that_ is completely different," Davey answered stiffly, unable to keep the annoyance out of his voice. "It's circumstantial, work or school related. Besides, you and Abby are too young to be out that late at night."

"Mom and Dad _said_ I could go to the rally," Les reminded him loftily.

"Which is why, against my better judgement, you'll be going," Davey agreed. "But Abby's parents are a different matter. They're not going to want their daughter running around late at night unsupervised with a boy they don't know."

"But we _won't_ be running around late at night unsupervised," Les replied, innocent as could be. "We'll be with you - a boy they _do_ know."

Davey pinched the bridge of his nose. "Please tell me that wasn't what you told her," he muttered, disliking the situation more and more by the second.

"It wasn't _exactly_ what I told her," Les answered, "but that was the gist of it."

"Les…" Davey began.

"Don't you think it would be rude for me to retract my invitation now that I've already asked her to go and she's agreed?" Les demanded.

"Well...yes," Davey agreed reluctantly.

"And you're always telling me to keep my promises," his little brother continued. "Doesn't that apply to taking Abby to the rally?"

"It does, sort of, but - "

"And like Dad says, 'it's a foolish man who cancels an engagement with a lady friend!'" Les declared pompously.

Davey frowned. "When has Dad ever said that?"

Les waved his hand dismissively. "Dad's always quoting those old sayings. I'm sure he's said something like it at _some_ point or another." He smiled guilelessly. "So, you see, David," he shrugged, "morally-speaking, my hands are tied. I really shouldn't back out of something I've agreed to, especially not when it's the landlord's daughter we're talking about. We wouldn't want to risk offending their family, now, would we?"

"You could have at least talked to me before you asked Abby to the rally," Davey grumbled, unhappy at the prospect of having to oversee yet another detail on an already busy night, and a detail as important as the safety of their landlord's youngest daughter, no less.

"There would have been no point in talking to you beforehand," Les said with conviction. "I already know what you'd say: 'You should be concentrating on the strike, Les. Now is not the time to be thinking about girls or having fun of any kind, Les - '"

"And I would have been right," Davey broke in, ignoring the exaggerated portrayal of his lecturing. "This kind of situation is _exactly_ why we shouldn't be thinking about girls, or chasing after them, or inviting them to rallies. We need to be _focused_ right now. The strike should be our only priority."

As soon as the words left Davey's mouth, the thought suddenly crossed his mind that perhaps he was being just a tiny bit hypocritical.

_Wait a minute...what?_

Davey quickly pushed the thought aside. It was ridiculous. He _was _completely focused on the strike; he'd hardly thought about anything else for the past week and a half, and he'd poured every waking moment into figuring out how to advance the cause. He wasn't like Les, trying to leverage the situation to impress the newsies or the girls at school, and he wasn't like Jack, who seemed to have difficulty remembering the task at hand whenever Katherine was around. The strike was Davey's first concern - his only concern. It had _always_ been his only concern.

...but hadn't he found his mind wandering only a few hours ago on the rooftop?

_It's not the same thing, _Davey told himself firmly. _That was completely different. _

Les gave him a quizzical look. "What are you talking about?"

Davey shook his head, belatedly realizing that he'd spoken the thought aloud. "Sorry, it's just…" he trailed off, quickly realizing that it would be unwise to try to explain. "Never mind, Les," he said. "Just...never mind."

The younger boy smirked. "Maybe you _should_ try to think about something else besides the strike every once in a while, David," he suggested. "All of this focusing can't be good for you if it makes you talk to yourself like that."

"Bailing _you_ out of your girl problems can't be good for me either," Davey shot back, finding his tongue rather quick to his own defense, "so maybe you're the one who should try to think every once in a while."

"Tried it; didn't much like it," came the careless reply. "Besides," Les shrugged, "why should I bother? You do more than enough thinking for the both of us."

Davey let out an exasperated sigh, rubbing the back of his neck. It was hopeless. The damage was already done, and like it or not, he was going to have to figure out a way to accommodate this unexpected complication. Les was right - it would be rude to retract the invitation now, so if Abby's parents agreed to it, Davey was going to have to play older-brother chaperone, whether he liked it or not.

That didn't mean he couldn't draw the line somewhere, though.

"All right," he said reluctantly. "If Abby's parents agree, I'll take you both to the rally. She can stay for the first part of the night during the meet and greet time and for the first few numbers of Miss Medda's entertainment. But after that, I'm taking her home. There's no telling how long the rally will go, and I don't want her to be out too late."

"But - "

"This is non-negotiable, Les," Davey said firmly. "I'm going to be busy enough trying to make sure everything runs smoothly at the rally, and your decision has already complicated things for me. I'll go along with your plan so that you can keep your word to Abby and so that you don't have to be embarrassed in front of the newsies, but I'm drawing the line there, and that's final."

The sternness in his voice brooked no opposition (there was a reason why he reserved ultimatums like these for times when he really needed them), and Les didn't protest. In fact, something about Davey's declaration must have affected him, because he suddenly rose from his chair and threw his arms around his older brother.

"You're the best, David," he said, grinning.

Davey laughed, a little surprised at the sudden show of affection. "Sure I am." He ruffled Les' hair, "Even though I never let you have any fun, right?"

"I know you're only looking out for me," Les replied, uncharacteristically appreciative. "Abby told me that I'd probably be dead if it wasn't for you."

"Those Becker girls are smart ones," Davey observed. "In fact," he added, unable to resist the rare opportunity to tease his brother, "I'm a little surprised that Abby agreed to go on a date with you. I thought she had more sense than that."

He expected his brother to respond with a scowl or with a sharp retort, but instead Les looked uneasy for a moment. Before Davey could question him, however, the younger Jacobs boy recovered his characteristic quick wit.

"At least I _have_ a date for the rally," he smirked, straightening up and crossing his arms over his chest. "That's more than can be said for _some _of us who only spend their time _thinking_."

"Someone has to be unattached to run the night," Davey insisted.

Les gave him a condescending pat on the shoulder. "That's right. You keep telling yourself that." He made a show of checking the clock on the wall. "Well, I've enjoyed our brotherly chat," he said with an exaggerated yawn, "but it's getting late, so I think I'll turn in now." He gave his brother a smug smile. "Don't stay up too late thinking, David." And he walked off before Davey could say another word.

* * *

**A/N: **I may enjoy writing the Jacobs brothers just a little _too_ much. :) Thanks for reading! We'll be heading over to check on Jack and Katherine in the next installment, and then it's on to the rally, but until then, I'd love to hear what you thought of this chapter!


	33. Jack's Decision

**Disclaimer: **This is a non-commercial work of fanfiction. Anything recognizable from _Newsies_ belongs to Disney and not to me.

* * *

Chapter 33_: _Jack's Decision

_It was dark. _

_It was dark and damp, and the walls smelled of mold and seeped sadness. _

_Jack curled his arms around himself, shivering a little as he took in his surroundings: four walls, dim lighting, a narrow wooden bench, no windows...one locked door. _

_He'd found himself in this place often enough when he'd mouthed off to Snyder or to one of his guards: it was the Reflection Room, the place where recalcitrant boys were sent to "think on their misdeeds and come to their senses," but what that basically meant was temporary solitary confinement and no food for an indeterminate amount of time. _

_What had been his most recent offense? Jack couldn't remember - he'd stopped paying attention, had gotten good at shutting off his mind and his emotions when the situation called for it. He had to, to keep the dismal conditions of The Refuge and the abuse of Snyder and his henchmen from shutting him down completely. _

_Jack settled himself onto the hard wooden bench, lying on his back as he stared up at the ceiling. Time passed, seemingly fluid..._

_Then suddenly he heard the sound of muffled shouting coming from down the hall. _

_Warily, Jack got to his feet, his body tensing into a defensive posture, a feeling of dread settling in the pit of his stomach as the voices grew louder and heavy footsteps sounded just outside the room. A key scraped against the lock, and then the door suddenly flew open, banging against the wall with a forcefulness that made Jack flinch. _

_A few of Snyder's goons stood silhouetted in the doorway, arguing loudly amongst themselves, and for a moment Jack tensed, thinking that they were intoxicated and had come to vent their anger on whatever unfortunate boy was trapped in the Reflection Room (Snyder did not overtly encourage such behavior, but he turned a blind eye to it so long as no permanent damage was done)...but just as he was about to brace himself for a fight, a familiar figure was shoved through the doorway, his wrists handcuffed behind his back, his cap missing and his clothes disheveled. _

_The goons pushed him towards the back of the room,_ and_ Jack let out a silent cry of dismay as Davey passed _right through _him, stumbling forward a few feet before he was promptly shoved to his knees and then to the ground. The light from the hallway cast his face into deep shadow, and Jack couldn't see any visible signs of injury, but from the way that the dark-haired boy was trying to curl into himself on the floor, something was definitely wrong. _

_Voices sounded again in the hallway, and this time two more guards appeared, dragging a handcuffed and unconscious Race. The gambler was pulled into the room and dropped unceremoniously on the ground next to Davey, and Jack, whose eyes were adjusting to the lighting more and more every second, could barely bring himself to look at his friend. _

_But he did. And he immediately regretted it. _

_Race had made a vow once in Jack's hearing that he would never allow himself to be taken to The Refuge again. Jack wasn't sure what terrible experience had caused the other boy to vehemently swear such a thing and Race had never told him - or anyone, as far as he knew. But there had been something dark and desperate in the way he'd said it, and even the memory of the steely words still sent a shiver down Jack's spine. _

_Of course Race wouldn't have gone down without giving his adversaries the fight of his life. But he'd lost. And seeing him badly hurt and completely helpless in the very place he'd sworn he'd never go back to made a choking despair well up in Jack's throat. He undoubtedly would have been unable to speak even if he hadn't already been some kind of voiceless apparition in this painfully-familiar yet completely surreal situation. _

_The guards began bickering loudly amongst themselves. _

_Jack couldn't understand their words, but he could smell the liquor on their breath. _

_One of them kicked Race, and when the unconscious boy didn't respond, they laughed, then dragged him over to a corner of the room, out of the way, before turning their attention to the still-responsive Davey. _

_Jack watched, his heart in his throat, as his friend was hauled to his feet. _

_He heard the sneering taunts of the men who knew that there was nothing to stop them from venting their aggression on a boy who was completely at their mercy. He heard the heavy clank of the door slamming shut... _

_And then he thought he heard the sound of Davey screaming...but to his surprise, the voice rising in panic and terror was his own. _

And that was when Jack woke up.

It was dark.

It was dark and damp, and the walls smelled of mold and seeped sadness.

But it wasn't The Refuge. It was Pulitzer's basement. There were no goons. There was no Snyder.

Race was free.

Davey was safe.

And the rally -

...the rally.

Jack shuddered, rolling off of the printing press where he'd inadvertently fallen asleep. The dream had been so real and so foreboding. Some of it he'd lived through, knew well enough - but some of it was undoubtedly the result of his insomnia-induced anxiety taking over.

Jack began to pace as he tried to shake the last vestiges of the nightmare from his mind. He knew what he had to do. He'd made his decision before drifting off to sleep on the printing press. But the horrifying dream had only strengthened his resolve. He couldn't let even a hint of what he'd just envisioned become reality; if he did, that reality was likely to be even more painful than what his troubled mind had imagined.

How long had he been in the cellar? How long was Pulitzer planning to keep him there? The newspaper owner would likely require a decision soon; the rally wasn't that far off, and Jack would need some time to get over to Irving Hall.

It was good that he knew the layout of the theater well; he'd have to find a place to hide until it was time for his speech. He didn't think that he could face Race or Davey at this point; if he happened to see either of them before the rally began, he would undoubtedly have to lie to them, and that thought was intimidating in the first instance (as Race was too observant to be fooled) and reprehensible in the second (as Davey was too sincere to deceive with a clean conscience). He was going to have to avoid them. Compromising himself, the strike, and his future with the newsies in order to protect them was going to be hard enough; the least he could do was spare himself the necessity of having to dissemble beforehand.

Jack stopped his pacing as he reached the foot of the stairs, looking up at the door through which he had come. He shook his head. Who was he kidding? Escape was out of the question. Even if the Delanceys had left the door open, made his way of escape clear and unhindered, he'd still be trapped, held there by the ominous threat hanging over his boys.

Pulitzer had him cornered. There was no way out.

Jack felt the encroaching weight of despair settle a little more heavily upon his shoulders. It was a palpable burden that he'd been carrying for years, ever since his father had died. At first it had only felt like a few tiny stones in a knapsack on his back, always with him, but never enough to hinder his progress. Sometimes, he'd even forgotten about it in especially happy moments, when he was laughing with Crutchie on the rooftop, or when he and Race were running away from the Delanceys after successfully pulling a prank, or when he'd shown one of his sketches to Miss Medda and she'd praised his natural aptitude. In those moments, the weight had almost seemed to disappear.

When he'd been thrown into The Refuge, though, the burden had gotten noticeably heavier. There were things he'd seen, things he'd heard, and things he'd felt that he knew he would never forget, and each of those experiences had added to the invisible weight that he'd carried. When he'd made his escape, hidden in the back of Governor Roosevelt's carriage, he'd been relieved and pleased at his own cleverness, but in the back of his mind he'd always known that he was coming out of The Refuge unalterably changed.

The burden hadn't gotten lighter after that - only heavier.

He must have been getting stronger, though, too, because he somehow managed to bear it. At least, he had, until this moment. At this moment, he could very well buckle under its weight if he wavered even a bit.

So Jack stood a little straighter and a little more defiant, pushing back against the despair that was threatening to overwhelm him. When the Delanceys and Pulitzer returned, they would _not _find him broken. They'd won, there was no denying it - but he would not give them the satisfaction of seeing him falter.

* * *

**A/N: **I ended up breaking up this chapter into two parts because Jack's section was reading oddly when juxtaposed next to Katherine's (which will be the next installment and a bit longer). Thank you for reading - please let me know what you thought of this! I'm still settling into writing Jack as a character, so your feedback is always appreciated :)


	34. Katherine Waits

**Disclaimer: **This is a non-commercial work of fanfiction. Anything recognizable from _Newsies_ belongs to Disney and not to me.

* * *

Chapter 34: Katherine Waits

The approaching daylight was just beginning to show itself through the bedroom window when Katherine rose from her bed and quickly began to get dressed.

She'd barely slept the night before, distressed and guilty over Jack's imprisonment and consumed with wondering whether or not he was all right. She knew that her father would need to release him soon, either to go to the rally to play his part in the scheme set out for him or into the hands of Snyder to be taken directly to The Refuge, but either release was to a foreboding end, and that realization was what had kept her tossing and turning as the night had worn on. Though she knew that she desperately needed her sleep, she was relieved when the first pale streaks of morning had begun to illuminate her window. She couldn't bear to lie still any longer.

After finishing her usual morning toilette, Katherine left her apartment and hurried over to _The World_. Thankfully, her father hadn't arrived yet for the day, but Hannah was there, her eyes troubled and her smile sad, and when she immediately opened her arms to Katherine, the former reporter ran into them without a second thought, letting the tears she'd held back all night fall silently upon the secretary's shoulder.

"It's all right, Kathy," the older woman said soothingly. "It's all right...it's going to be fine."

"I don't know what he's going to do, Hannah," Katherine sniffled. "Both options are terrible! Jack loves his boys. Betraying them, even to keep them safe, is going to tear him apart! But if he doesn't speak against the strike and gets thrown into The Refuge…" The tears came again, and she swiped at them angrily with her hand. Now was _not _the time to be breaking down, and she wouldn't have expected it of herself. She would have expected better. It was probably her sleep-deprived state that was making her so emotional.

"Let's move into one of the empty offices," Hannah murmured gently, glancing over at the clock on her desk. "Your father has a 7:00 appointment; he'll be along any moment to prepare for it before his guest arrives, and it would be better for him not to find you here." Sliding her arm around Katherine's shoulders, she led the way down the long hallway, then paused in front of one of the doors, unlocking it to reveal an unoccupied work room.

Ushering Katherine into the office, Hannah pulled a chair out of the closet and then motioned for her companion to sit. "I'll go make you some tea, Kathy," she said kindly. "Rest here, and I'll be back in a moment."

As soon as the door clicked shut, Katherine sank into the chair, thankful to have something solid to hold on to. She wasn't sure why she'd even come here - there was nothing she could do for Jack, not while he was still imprisoned in the cellar with the Delanceys standing guard (she'd unsuccessfully tried to go down to see him the night before but had been rudely turned away). Despite her helplessness, however, she felt that she needed to stay nearby. She might not be able to get to Jack at the moment, but she would wait until an opportunity came to her.

There was no chance of her father relenting; this she knew from experience. When Joseph Pulitzer was set on a particular course of action, there was little anyone could do to stand in his way, and unless an alternative situation arose that was clearly more advantageous to himself, the man would remain immovable and impassive. Trying to get him to capitulate or reconsider at this point would be futile; his plan was in motion, and he would stop at nothing until he'd accomplished his objective. The very characteristics that made him a powerful player in the newspaper world made him a nearly-approachable father, and while Katherine sensed that his heart was not bent on cruelty for cruelty's sake, she knew that he would be ruthless if he deemed it necessary to accomplish his goals, ruthless to the point of even using his own daughter as a pawn.

Katherine shook her head, telling herself that she _would not_ start crying again.

She shouldn't have been surprised. Her father's empire had always come before his family, and though she knew that he cared about her, when she'd chosen to strike out on her own to pursue a career, her position as a professional opponent had been solidified, and her father's demeanor towards her had changed. If there had ever been any slight indulgence he'd felt towards her, there now was none - he treated her as he would any other reporter who worked for a rival newspaper.

(A few months ago, she had found a stack of clippings in his home office, tucked away in the bottom drawer of his desk, and had been surprised to realize that it was a collection of her articles - every single one that she'd written since first being published. He'd saved them all; even the monotonous reviews of the flower shows that she hated so much were there. It was the only evidence she'd ever seen of any kind of sentimentality on his part. But clearly he hadn't meant for her to find out about it).

In a strange way, the man's aloofness might have actually been a mark of his professional respect. Katherine had expressed on no uncertain terms that she didn't want her name and pedigree to do her any favors when she'd applied for her first job at _The Sun_, so it was likely that her father had acted in accordance with this desire. She wished that he hadn't taken it quite so far - but she shouldn't have been surprised. In the newspaper world, she was on the side of the newsboys, which meant that she was against Pulitzer, daughter or not. _She_ certainly hadn't pulled any punches when she'd written her article for _The Sun _denouncing his exploitation of the newsies, so it was probably unfair to expect that her father would hold back after she'd been the one to strike first.

Katherine felt her thoughts shifting into the mode of a strategist as she deliberately left the aching grief of a daughter behind. She'd cried her tears on Hannah's shoulder; now it was time to move ahead. The past could not be undone, but the future remained malleable, and she was going to do everything in her power to ensure that what lay ahead was advantageous, not just for herself, but for the newsies, and for Jack. The situation as it stood looked bleak, but maybe there was still hope of recourse.

Was there anything she hadn't yet considered that could turn the tide?

Pulitzer hesitated at little and feared nothing. What he respected and would occasionally respond to, however, was cunning. He was an opportunistic man himself, quick and calculating, and rather than react defensively when he was cornered, he seemed to enjoy the challenge of seeing how he could turn any situation - even what was shaping up to look like a loss - to his advantage. In doing so, he came out the winner far more often than anyone expected. Katherine may not have shared many things in common with her father, but she knew that she had inherited this cagey resourcefulness. And, like her father, she _hated_ to lose.

The thrill of being the underdog, of being cornered but still standing, was quickly beginning to grow inside of her, and Katherine's brow furrowed in determination as she promised herself that she would find a way to beat her father at his own game. Unlike his other political and professional opponents, she had the very same fighting spirit that usually gave Pulitzer an edge over his adversaries, and she was going to draw on that advantage with every ounce of strength she had.

A light knock sounded upon the door, and Hannah re-appeared with a steaming cup of tea. "Here you are, Kathy," she said kindly. "This should help take the edge off of things a little...but you do seem to be looking better already, if I'm not mistaken."

"I do feel better, Hannah," Katherine answered gratefully. She was already beginning to scheme.

"Well, your father's arrived," the secretary said warningly, "but his schedule is so full today that I doubt he'll be leaving his office much; you should be able to remain here undetected if you want to stay. If you were hoping to catch a glimpse of Jack, though, my guess is that your father will be bringing him up around 3:00 this afternoon - that's the only window he has in his schedule today."

Katherine nodded, grateful for Hannah's inside information. "I need to go to my own office for a few hours," she said, "so I'll head out for a while and come back before then." There were several tasks she'd left unfinished the day before at _The Sun_ that needed to be completed before the start of the new week, and it would probably be good to step out for a while to clear her head and get something to eat. The events of the late afternoon would likely require all of her emotional fortitude, and she needed to be ready.

Her resolve strengthened by the plan and by the warm cup of tea, Katherine thanked Hannah and stealthily made her way past her father's office and out of the building. She headed directly to _The Sun_ and then spent the next several hours completing the miscellaneous tasks that she'd left outstanding before leaving for a late lunch. Before long, it was time for her to head back to _The World. _

She waited downstairs until Hannah assured her that the coast was clear before hurrying back up to the empty office and sequestering herself therein. Only a quarter of an hour or so passed before she heard the sound of footsteps coming up the back stairway from the cellar. She risked a quick peek, and saw that, true to Hannah's prediction, it was the Delancey brothers roughly escorting Jack down the hall to Pulitzer's suite.

Crouching as close to the door as she dared, Katherine watched, hidden in the shadows, as the three men approached. She strained to catch a glimpse of Jack's face, but to her disappointment he passed by too quickly for her to get a good look. However, she caught the stiffness of his shoulders and the irritable way he shoved off Morris' restraining hand as they made their way down the hall, and it gave her hope. It meant that Jack still had some fight left in him.

She heard the sound of the door to her father's office opening and clicking shut, then slowly let out a breath she didn't realize she had been holding.

Now the real waiting began.

Katherine paced the room, wishing (not for the first time) that she could be a fly on the wall of her father's office, eavesdropping on the conversation taking place within.

What was Jack's decision? And what would be Pulitzer's response?

After a few minutes of nervous pacing, Katherine made herself sit down. There was no way to know the answer to those questions; she ought to preserve her energy so that she could later channel it into something productive.

Reaching for her handbag, she pulled out the note Jack had sent her and unfolded it carefully. On the top of the page, he'd jotted down the details for the show they had planned to see on Saturday as well as where he'd meet her so that they could walk over to the theater together. Then, having conveyed the necessary logistical information, he'd abruptly added:

_I wanted to write you something nice, but words ain't my strong suit, so I'm gonna have to let my scribbling speak for me. _

Below the writing was a rough but still beautifully-depicted sketch of her wearing the outfit she'd had on the day she and the Jacobs brothers had found Jack at Irving Hall. He hadn't been drawing while she'd been present, so he must have rendered the sketch from memory, and the thought that he'd taken her in so carefully that he could recall such details with near-perfect accuracy was heady. Katherine knew that she was attractive, but Jack's close attention had made her feel beautiful in a deeper way.

At the bottom of the sketch, he'd written one final thought in his smudgy, cramped handwriting:

_I never planned on someone like you, Plumber. You sure is something else. _

_-Jack_

Katherine felt the tears pricking at her eyes again, and she brushed them away, careful not to let them fall upon Jack's note.

_Why_ hadn't she told him sooner? If Jack had known about her true identity, Pulitzer wouldn't have been able to use that information against him, and perhaps the newsie leader wouldn't have been caught so off guard during their meeting. At the very least, the relationship that had been blossoming between them could have been preserved had she exercised a little forethought and come clean before her secret was divulged for her. Her motives for keeping Jack in the dark had been well-intended, but they'd certainly backfired tenfold. The utterly betrayed look that he had given her before being taken down to the cellar had made it clear that the trust between them had been shattered, perhaps irrevocably, and though Katherine understood why he'd brushed her off so forcefully when she'd tried to run to him, his curt dismissal had still hurt her.

But he had every reason to be angry, she reminded herself. She'd broken faith with him. There were no two ways of looking at it.

Wiping away one final tear, Katherine folded up the note and tucked it back into her handbag. She was not going to sit and wallow in self-pity. She was here to make things right, not to wish her mistakes away, and while she couldn't discern what was being discussed in the meeting down the hall, she was determined that once Jack was released - to the rally or to The Refuge - she would figure out a way to help him somehow, to stand by his side and show him that she still believed in him, even if he'd lost his faith in her.

She didn't have to wait long. The sound of the office door clicking open down the hall alerted her to the meeting's conclusion, and Katherine crept silently over to the door to watch as Jack left Pulitzer's office alone.

He was going to speak against the strike.

Katherine waited a moment until she heard him start down the stairs. He would be watched and likely followed once he made it to the street - she was sure that her father was only letting Jack leave unaccompanied to give him a false sense of freedom, and she was willing to bet a month's wages that the newsie would be kept on a tight (if imperceptible) leash until he'd fulfilled her father's directive.

Sure enough, not a minute later, the door to her father's office opened again, and the Delancey brothers and Seitz appeared in the hallway, conferring quietly amongst themselves before setting off down the stairs in the direction that Jack had gone.

Katherine counted to one hundred, checked one more time to make sure no one else was coming, then stole into the hallway, making her way quietly past her father's office and down the stairs. She would have to shadow Jack carefully in order to avoid being noticed by his pursuers, but she knew how to keep a low profile and was confident that she'd be able to make it to Irving Hall undetected. She didn't know exactly what she would do once she got there, but some kind of opportunity to help Jack would surely present itself.

And when that opportunity came, she would be ready.

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**A/N**: I've always thought that Katherine's relationship with her father must have been an interesting one behind the scenes, so I'll be exploring it a bit more in this story as we go along. Thanks for reading; I'd love to hear what you thought, even if it's just a word or two!


	35. Arrivals and Arrangements

**Disclaimer: **This is a non-commercial work of fanfiction. Anything recognizable from _Newsies_ belongs to Disney and not to me.

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Chapter 35: Arrivals and Arrangements

To Davey's utter surprise, Irving Hall was nearly full to capacity half an hour before the rally was slated to begin. Many of the newsies from the other neighborhoods must have cut their selling day short to make it over in time (or else they'd just managed to have especially good luck and had finished their work days early) - whatever the case, the event was clearly important to them, and Davey was overwhelmed by the strong show of support.

It would be premature to count the rally a success, though. Attendance was good, but allies were what they were after.

The Brooklyn contingent had been the first to arrive, Spot and his cronies filing into the section that had been marked off for them by Davey's handmade signs, and they immediately took command of the entire space around them with an air of domination that only Brooklyn could muster. Race and Davey walked over to greet Spot personally, and then Race chatted with a few of the boys he was familiar with while Davey hurried over to the front door of the theater to greet another group of newsies who had arrived. It turned out to be the delegation from Richmond; Woodside and Flushing were right behind them.

It was an interesting experience observing the ways different leaders managed the newsies under their command. Some seemed to take a more hands-off approach to leadership, exercising hardly any control, while others were much more direct in their supervision. Brooklyn was certainly on one end of the spectrum; Manhattan (from what Davey could tell), fell somewhere in the middle, though he suspected that he hadn't seen enough of Jack's leadership to draw a definitive conclusion.

Jack...

Davey, despite his best efforts, hadn't been able to locate the newsie leader before the rally. It had rather disconcerted him; from a logistical standpoint, he needed to know if Pulitzer would be speaking at the rally or not so that he could inform Race who would be serving as master of ceremonies for the night, but putting that aside (Davey had made the program flexible enough to accommodate a last-minute addition or omission, so in some ways it didn't matter), he was concerned for Jack's safety. Had the newsie leader run into trouble with Pulitzer? Had there been some kind of foul play? Was he in danger? Did he need help?

_Calm down, _Davey told himself. He took a deep breath and slowly let it out. Most likely he was overreacting. Jack had promised that he'd be in touch, but maybe he'd simply forgotten to check in. After all, hadn't he said that he was taking Katherine on a date shortly before the rally? Davey had seen enough of Jack's infatuation with the former reporter to know that other things (and other people) seemed to fall to the wayside whenever she was around, so the thought that he'd forgotten his promise to apprise Davey of Pulitzer's decision wasn't really too far-fetched at all.

It seemed odd that Miss Medda wouldn't know of his whereabouts, though. Davey had made it a point to connect with the owner of Irving Hall as soon as he'd arrived, thanking her for her hospitality and making sure that he was clear on the house rules so that he could communicate any pertinent information to Race. He'd asked her about Jack at that time, too, but to his surprise, the woman had only said that he'd left on an errand the day before and that she hadn't seen him since. However, she admitted that she'd been away from the theater for most of that time, so perhaps they had just missed each other. She didn't seem to be worried, so Davey had held back his questions and instead directed his nervous energy towards preparing for the rally itself.

There certainly had been plenty to keep him busy. Race and the other boys from the lodging house had helped with some of the set-up, but they'd also done a fair amount of goofing off, and Davey had found himself being forced to reign them in on a few occasions. To his surprise, they'd actually listened to him (somewhat), and he realized that what Race had said was true - like it or not, reluctant or willing, he was their leader too, and they saw and respected him as such. It was the strangest feeling, but he wasn't going to sit around doubting it or trying to figure it out; there was simply too much that required his attention. Rumination would have to wait.

Davey hadn't said a word about Jack's absence to Race, not wanting to upset the gambler, but he knew that he would have to broach the subject soon. He wouldn't allow himself to consider the worst-case scenario - that Jack might fail to show up altogether - but they should probably have some kind of back up plan just in case.

Not for the first time, Davey was grateful for Race's collaboration over the past week and a half. They made for an unlikely pair of de facto leaders, but somehow between the two of them, they'd managed to make do. The strike hadn't faltered, the lodging house was still standing, the newsies were in reasonably good spirits...and no one had died.

It had certainly helped to have Race present to welcome the visiting newsies and their leaders. No one knew who Davey was, but almost everyone knew Race, and Davey seemed to be unquestioningly accepted by association, though he didn't miss the curious glances that were shot in his direction. He wasn't exactly sure what gave him away as different - he'd quit wearing a tie a while ago - but there really wasn't anything he could do about the scrutiny, so he'd shrugged it off as best he could, and by the time the majority of the newsies had arrived, he had done more spit-shaking than he'd ever want to do again in his life.

"So, we missin' anyone?" Race asked, coming up to stand beside Davey, his eyes scanning the crowded auditorium.

"Just the Bronx," Davey answered, having already double-checked his list. "We've made contact with each of the other neighborhoods who said they were coming."

Race gave a dry chuckle. "Leave it to Gar to show up late. Wonder what kinda excuse he's gonna give this time."

"Gar?" Davey echoed. "Is that the leader of the Bronx?"

Race grinned as though the question amused him. "Guess some here would say so," he shrugged, "but I wouldn't call him that myself."

Davey was about to question the rather oblique answer, but before he could, he felt a tug on his shirt sleeve and turned to see Elmer at his elbow.

"Hey, Davey," the newsie piped up eagerly, "you said you was gonna be stationin' some of us outside of the theater to watch for any trouble. Is it time for me and the fellas to head to our spots?"

Davey smiled at the younger boy's enthusiasm. "Yes, now would actually be a good time," he answered. "Can you round up Specs and Henry for me? I'll meet you in front of the stage." Elmer nodded and took off.

"There goes a newsie on a mission," Race remarked with a grin. "You sure got a knack for motivatin' these bummers."

"I'm just grateful they've been willing to help out," Davey replied. "The rally wouldn't have come together if everyone hadn't pitched in."

Race shook his head. "You sure ain't the kind to take a compliment lyin' down, are ya?" he sighed. "Gonna have to work on that, Dave - can't be a proper newsie if you ain't willin' to toot your own horn every once in a while or at least let someone else toot it for ya."

"Maybe if tonight ends up being a success I'll let you tell me that I did all right," Davey answered. "But I should go check on a few more things now, if you're feeling all right about everything."

"Pretty sure I got all the details squared away," Race affirmed, "'cept you never told me if Pulitzer's gonna be speakin' tonight or not."

_Right._

"I'm actually not sure about that," Davey admitted. "I'm still waiting to hear from Jack, but I haven't been able to find him." There was no way of circumventing the issue now. "My best guess is that Pulitzer won't be coming, so let's proceed without leaving a spot for him in the program, but if anything changes, I'll let you know. We'll still have some buffer time to confirm everything even after the rally begins, since Miss Medda's entertainment will take a while."

Race didn't look at all surprised that Jack hadn't shown up, and he didn't bother to hide the disgruntled look that crossed his face.

"Oh, Race, just a reminder," Davey added, purposefully moving the conversation along, "later I'll be stepping out for a bit to take Les' date home. It's going to be too late for her to stay for the entirety of the rally, and I promised her parents I'd get her back at a reasonable hour, so she'll stay for the opening of the rally and a few numbers of Miss Medda's show, but after that, we'll be heading out. I shouldn't be too long - but if I get held up for whatever reason, Miss Medda said she's available to assist you, and I've got Elmer and Specs in charge of rotating the boys on lookout duty so that none of them have to miss the entire rally. Things will hopefully run themselves for the first part of the night, and I'll definitely be back before it's time for the question and answer period."

Race nodded, seemingly unconcerned. "Sure, Dave, ain't a problem." He gave a meaningful nod over at the corner of the theater where a handful of girls - the newsies' dates - were sitting. "I think you might need to have a word with your brother about bein' a little more attentive to his girl, though," he remarked. "The little lady ain't lookin' too happy."

Davey glanced in the direction Race was indicating and saw that Les, who was off chatting with Buttons in another corner of the theater, had indeed left a rather irritated-looking Abby to fend for herself. That wouldn't have necessarily been a problem - Davey had caught sight of the book the girl had brought along with her to pass the time, seemingly prepared for the possibility of sitting alone - but unfortunately, the fact that she was the only girl unattended meant that she was also a prime target for Romeo and the young newsie's flirtatious advances.

"Better go put out that fire," Race drawled, giving Davey a not-quite-sympathetic pat on the back before sauntering away. Davey sighed, heading in the direction of Les and reminding himself as he did so that his brother was only nine and that getting angry at him wouldn't help. It occurred to him as he was making his way over that he'd forgotten to discuss a contingency plan with Race if Jack didn't show up to give the opening speech for the rally, but Davey pushed the thought aside. He had enough to deal with right now. He just had to trust that Jack would show up. He had to believe that he'd come through for them.

Reaching Buttons and Les, Davey quickly apologized to the former before corralling the latter and taking him aside. Normally, he wouldn't have abruptly ended the conversation like that, but he didn't have time to be polite at the moment.

"Les," he said, trying to speak as patiently as possible, "did you mean to leave Abby sitting by herself while you went off to socialize?"

Les cocked his head as if he hadn't really thought about it. "She doesn't look like she's by herself," he observed, glancing in the girl's direction. "Romeo's talking to her now."

"Romeo's probably _flirting_ with her now," Davey corrected. "And even if he's not, you really should be there with her. You invited her to this rally, and it's your job to make sure she feels comfortable. She doesn't know any of the newsies or any of the other girls she's sitting with, and you're the only one here who's her own age. Think of how you'd feel if you were in her place."

"If I was in her place, I'd go around meeting people instead of sitting in the corner with my book," Les contended.

"Yes, but not everyone's as outgoing as you," Davey reminded him. "If you weren't willing to spend time with Abby at the rally, you really shouldn't have invited her to go with you in the first place. This is why you have to think a little more before you ask a girl on a date. She's not just something you bring along to make yourself look good. She's a person, and she came here expecting to spend time with you. You might want to go off to talk with other people, and that's fine, but you should at least invite her along, and if she doesn't want to go, you should stay with her. You're the one who asked her out, so you owe her that courtesy."

Les was quiet for a moment, seeming to think through his older brother's words. Davey waited, knowing that he'd spoken the hard truth but unsure of whether or not the younger boy would receive the correction. With Les, it usually was a toss up. Sometimes, he was vehemently opposed (seemingly on principle) to anything that Davey said; other times, he would evade responding, tossing back a flippant remark and simply walking away...but sometimes he would actually listen.

This turned out to be one of those times.

"I guess you're right," Les admitted, sounding slightly remorseful. "I didn't mean to leave Abby by herself - I just wanted to tell Buttons this joke I heard from one of the boys in my class."

"And there's nothing wrong with that," Davey said assuringly, "but next time just invite Abby to go with you, or save the joke for later, all right?"

Les nodded in agreement. He looked over for a moment at where the youngest Becker girl was sitting, then up at Davey. "Are you disappointed in me, David?" he asked suddenly. "For being a terrible date to Abby?"

Davey stared at him in surprise. "Disappointed?" he echoed. "No, Les, of course not." He put his hands on his brother's shoulders, bending down to look him in the eye. "I know that it's exciting to be out at night and that you've made friends with the newsies and want to talk to them, too. But I also know that you'll be able to figure out a way to enjoy the rally and still be an attentive date to Abby." He straightened up, ruffling Les' hair. "After all, weren't you the one telling me that it _is_ possible to focus on the strike and a girl at the same time?"

Les laughed. "That _is _true - for some of us. You might be the one exception, David - though after that lecture you just gave me, I'm starting to wonder if maybe you're not as completely clueless about girls as I thought."

"Well...I guess I'll take that as a compliment," Davey answered ruefully. "Glad you could find it in yourself to trust my expertise every once in a while."

"I didn't say you were an expert," Les corrected him. "I said you weren't completely clueless. There's a big difference." He sighed. "Well, I guess I'd better go apologize to Abby...and tell Romeo that he needs to find his own date for the rally." Squaring his shoulders as only a precious nine-year-old could, he walked off, leaving Davey to silently congratulate himself for not having botched the first unexpected hurdle of the night.

Catching sight of Elmer, who had managed to find both Specs and Henry, Davey hurried over to meet them. After giving them a quick briefing of their instructions and making sure each of them knew which newsie was on deck to relieve them, Davey deployed the boys to their spots, then returned to the front of the theater where Race was standing among a large group of newsies.

It looked like the Bronx had arrived after all.

"Hey, Davey," Race called cheerfully, beckoning him over. "Look who finally decided to show up!" Davey drew near, expecting the gambler to introduce him to the aforementioned Gar and wondering which one of the boys standing around Race was him, but instead, Race slung his arm around the girl at his right hand, saying with easy familiarity, "You was askin' about who runs things in the Bronx, and you's about to meet her." He grinned. "Dave, this is Calico - the _real_ leader of the Bronx. Cal, meet Davey - he's the brains behind this rally."

The girl gave Davey an appraising glance. She was tall - almost tall enough to look him in the eye - and dressed in muted colors like the rest of the newsies, but instead of tucking her hair into her cap, she wore it tied back with a bow of brightly colored fabric (calico?) which drew the eye rather than hiding from it. Her expression was openly curious and her bearing commanded attention, yet there was something surreptitious about her as well. Davey had run into girl newsies before even before becoming a newsie himself, but he'd never crossed paths with one who carried herself like this.

"This must have been quite an undertaking," Calico finally spoke, looking around the theater. "You Manhattan boys certainly know how to throw a party."

_Hold on a moment. _Here was one more thing that didn't seem to fit.

Race grinned at the startled look on Davey's face. "You's tryin' to figure out why Calico don't talk like a regular newsie, aint'cha?"

"I - well - yes," Davey answered, caught off guard by the question and hoping that his honest answer hadn't been offensive.

"Ain't a person who's met her who don't wonder the same thing," Race said assuringly. He glanced at Calico, "and ain't a person I know of who knows the answer to that question either, right, Cal?"

She gave him an enigmatic smile.

"How do you two know each other?" Davey asked when it seemed that Calico had no intention of elaborating.

"Ran into this gal a few years ago when I used to sell over by the tracks near the Harlem River," Race answered. "Got into a little bit of a misunderstandin' with some low-lifes there who was lookin' to pick a fight, and it almost got ugly before Cal here showed up. We gave 'em a soakin' they wouldn't forget, mostly 'cause they got beat by a girl - and a girl who weren't pretendin' to be a boy, either." He grinned proudly. "That's the mistake most folks make, underestimatin' her 'cause of the hairbow and everything. They think she's gonna be some kind of weakling because she don't put up a tough front, but they always end up regrettin' it."

"People seem to misjudge me on a regular basis," Calico shrugged. "And unfortunately it falls to me to set the record straight." Her rapacious smile left no doubt in Davey's mind that there was, in fact, very little regret felt on her part, and he was suddenly struck by a feeling very similar to the one he'd gotten from Spot when the Brooklyn leader had visited the lodging house - that disconcerting feeling when someone was saying one thing, but really meant something else altogether.

"Anyway," Race continued, "we kinda saw each other here and there after that. Got into a few scrapes together. Cal's the one who got me my first cigar. And," he added, smirking a little at Davey, "she can pick a pocket like nobody's business."

The girl held up something small and shiny between her fingers, and Davey's eyes widened as he recognized the object.

It was Sadie's thimble.

"Interesting item for a newsie to be carrying around," Calico mused, giving Davey a searching look.

"It's not mine," he said quickly, still bewildered as to how she'd managed to pilfer the tiny item from his pocket without his notice.

"Oh!" Calico's look was sly. "So I just pickpocketed another pickpocket?" She gave Davey a deliberate once-over as though she didn't quite believe it. "Well, you know what they say in our line of work," she shrugged. "If you can't hang on to it, you don't deserve to keep it." And the copper thimble disappeared somewhere on her person.

Davey blinked in consternation, began to say something, then quickly thought the better of it. It was just a little scrap of metal, he told himself, and Sadie had told him to throw it away, anyway. It shouldn't matter to him if Calico wanted to keep it. But even so, he found himself wanting the thimble back, though he knew he would sound rather absurd if he said so. Before he could decide if his irrational desire to repossess it was strong enough to override his common sense, Race stepped in.

"Aw, come on, Cal," the gambler wheedled. "Give it back. You made your point, and what are you gonna do with somethin' like that anyway? You don't sew."

"I'm willing to bet that _he_ doesn't either," Calico said shrewdly, looking at Race but inclining her head in Davey's direction.

"Well, who _cares_ whether he do or don't," Race said impatiently. "He ain't one of your regular-type newsies - ya can't just go pocketin' his stuff."

Calico turned her curious gaze on Davey. "I'll give it back to him if he tells me why it's so important," she challenged, raising an eyebrow.

Before Davey could answer, Race interjected yet again. "You's gonna have to get it back from me first, then." Two sets of eyes stared at him, and he grinned mischievously, then held up the thimble. "Looks like ya taught me too well, Cal," Race declared, tossing the shiny object to Davey who recovered just in time to catch it.

"It looks like I did," the girl agreed, sounding surprisingly pleased at having been outwitted. "You win...this round." She gave a little nod to Race, then looked again at Davey, pausing for a moment as though she was still trying to make him out. Then without another word, she sidled off, her attention clearly drawn elsewhere, with the rest of the Bronx newsies following in her wake.

"Thanks, Race," Davey said, giving the other boy an appreciative look. "I didn't want to offend her."

Race waved him off. "I ain't gonna pretend like I don't want to know why you's carryin' around a thimble two sizes too small in your pocket," he remarked dryly, "but we got more important things to think about right now, and Calico ain't exactly the kind to make a good first impression." He shook his head. "Pretty sure she likes ya, though. She wouldn'tve been so interested in tryin' to get an answer outta you if she didn't think you was important enough to be worth her curiosity."

"Can we trust her?" Davey asked, still having trouble wrapping his mind around the enigmatic de facto leader of the Bronx.

"Trust her?" Race repeated. He nodded. "Yeah, we can trust her." He paused a moment, then added, almost as an afterthought, "But still...you gotta watch yourself. She ain't the kind you want to mess around with."

"So, who's Gar, then?" Davey asked, still not understanding the convoluted chain of command. "If he's supposedly the leader of the Bronx, then why is Calico running things, and why didn't he come himself?"

Race snorted a little. "You ain't ever heard of such a thing as a figurehead, Dave? Even with all the readin' you've done?"

"Well, yes, - but I didn't think that kind of thing happened with the newsies."

Race patted Davey on the back. "There's a lot of things you still gotta learn," he said with a grin. "But you'll catch on - eventually." Before Davey could reply, Race jerked his thumb in the direction of the stage. "Enough chit-chat," he said eagerly. "Everyone's here now, and time's wastin'." He grinned. "I think it's about time we got this rally started."

* * *

**A/N**: "So's the Bronx!" I elected to write an all-male band of Manhattan newsies for this story in keeping with the cast of the live capture, but I didn't want to miss out on a chance to write a girlsie too, so Calico's my little venture into that character type, and this won't be the last we see of her. Thanks for reading - I'd love to know what you thought of her and of this chapter!


	36. Caesura

**Disclaimer: **This is a non-commercial work of fanfiction. Anything recognizable from _Newsies_ belongs to Disney and not to me.

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Chapter 36: Caesura

**A/N:** Dedicated to Countess Eliza. :)

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Thunderous applause filled Irving Hall as the newsies clapped and cheered, clearly enjoying themselves and the entertainment provided by Miss Medda and her ensemble. Davey watched from his vantage point off to the side of the auditorium, clapping politely along with the rest of the crowd but internally unable to focus on the performance.

The rally, so far, had gone off without a hitch. Miss Medda's warm welcome had immediately set the newsies at ease, and Race's spirited introductory remarks had only served to heighten everyone's good mood. He'd opened the night by inviting each of the newsie contingents to sound off in turn with a cheer, and Davey had found himself smiling as he heard the orderly shout of the Brooklyn boys, the no-less enthusiastic huzzahs of Calico and the Bronx, and the roar of his own Manhattan cronies amongst the other voices.

A few exuberant choruses of "High Times, Hard Times" lead by Miss Medda only elevated the crowd's excitement, and by the end of the opening number, Davey was fairly certain that he was the only one present who hadn't completely lost himself in the revelry.

He really _ought _to try to loosen up a little - aside from Jack's whereabouts being still unknown, things were proceeding exactly as they should. There was no reason to be concerned. The newsies stationed outside of the theater hadn't reported anything unusual. The few stragglers who had come in late had found their seats easily enough thanks to the clear signage. And the program was right on schedule, almost exactly to the minute. Everything was going well. He could afford to sit back and relax for a moment.

..._right._ There was no way _that_ was happening.

Glancing at the clock at the back of the auditorium, Davey checked his notepad where he'd written down the order of events for the night. There were still several numbers left to go in Miss Medda's program, but it would be time to take Abby home soon, so he'd need to leave things in the capable hands of others while he attended to Les' date. Accordingly, he made his way over to the table where she was sitting, waiting until the song had finished before gently tapping the youngest Becker on the shoulder and motioning towards the door. Abby tucked her book under her arm, gave Les a little nod of farewell, then silently followed Davey out of the auditorium, through the lobby, and down the stairs of the theater to the street.

Davey would have made his brother come along to escort Abby back on principle (since she really was Les' date), but in the end, practical considerations won out - Davey knew that he would be able to make it back to the theater quicker if he didn't have to slow his return pace for the younger boy's shorter strides.

"Did you have a good time tonight, Abby?" he asked courteously as they made their way down the street.

"It could have been worse," the girl replied. "At least I remembered to bring along my book. And it was interesting to watch Miss Medda's performance."

"I'm sorry Les wasn't a more attentive date," Davey apologized. As they passed by a narrow alleyway, he gave a tiny nod of acknowledgement to Henry, hidden in the shadows at his post keeping watch as they passed. "My brother means well, but he's still learning. It was kind of you to agree to go with him to the rally; I'm sure your sensibility will have a good influence on him."

"You're a good influence on my sister, too," Abby remarked candidly. "Mama and Papa are happy she's doing better in school now that she has to tutor you, and she hasn't seemed nearly as empty-headed as usual."

That wasn't where Davey had expected the conversation to go. "I think Sadie was already smart before she began tutoring me," he remonstrated gently, "but maybe she just needed a reason to apply herself. Sometimes new circumstances or new people can draw things out of us that we didn't know were there." That principle certainly applied to himself with regards to the newsies.

"Well, if you can get Sadie to read for fun, I'll consider you a miracle-worker," Abby declared. "I keep telling her she should pick up a book every once in a while, but she's never been interested."

Davey chuckled sympathetically. "Les is the same way. He only reads when he has to, and even then it's only the bare minimum. I've been trying to get him interested in books for years, but I guess I've kind of given up." He gave Abby a little grin. "How about this? If you'll try to get my brother to pick up a book, I'll do my best to convince Sadie that reading is actually a worthwhile diversion. We'll see who can get the other's sibling to give in first, and then we'll go do something to celebrate our victory - maybe take a trip to that used book store over by the tailor's where your sister works. Does that sound good?"

Abby nodded. "I'm not sure who has the more difficult task," she said, taking Davey's suggestion rather seriously, "but it can't hurt to try. Sadie's more likely to listen to you than to me."

"And I'd say the same thing about Les listening to you," Davey agreed, "so it's a well-designed strategy we've got in place."

They chatted the entire walk back to the tenement (Abby, like her sister, was a rather proficient conversationalist, though she was far more sober in manner) and Davey found it an interesting experience to be talking to someone who was just as precocious as Les but far more thoughtfully inclined. He'd often been struck by the fact that he and his brother didn't share very much in common - looks weren't the only thing - and at times he'd wondered what it would have been like to have had a younger sibling who was more similar to himself in temperament and disposition. Abby was probably the closest person he'd found.

Upon reaching the tenement, they climbed the stairs to the third floor, and Davey waited while Abby knocked on the door to her family's apartment. Philip Becker answered, welcoming them in enthusiastically and wanting to hear how the night had gone.

"You look like you enjoyed yourself, Abigail," he said, pulling his daughter into a hug as she entered the apartment. "Did you have a good time at the rally?"

"The best part was talking with David on the way back," Abby stated matter-of-factly. "He's read _Treasure Island _and _The Swiss Family Robinson_ too, though we've agreed to disagree on which one has the better storyline."

"Well, I'm glad to hear that you've had a pleasant return trip," Philip Becker smiled. He turned to Davey. "Thank you for seeing Abigail back safely and at a reasonable hour, David. Sadie tells me that this whole event is your doing, so I'm sure you had your hands full tonight."

"It wasn't any trouble," Davey replied. "And I enjoyed our conversation on the way back, too."

"We came up with a really good idea," Abby informed her father. "But I can't say more, lest someone overhear."

"I'm not sure I like the sound of that, Abby," Sadie said as she walked into the room, carrying her handbag and a satchel which she set on the floor by her feet. "Those words make me suspect that some nefarious plotting is afoot." She glanced at her sister, who returned the look with a completely placid expression, and then at Davey, who had a little more trouble keeping a straight face. "What _are_ you two up to?" she inquired, tapping her finger against her cheek.

"Nothing that concerns you," Abby answered cooly. "And you're not allowed to question David."

"Why ever not?" Sadie set her hands on her hips. "If he has nothing to hide, he certainly shouldn't be afraid of a little innocent investigation."

"Judith's rules," Abby shot back. "Personal conversations and matters discussed in confidence are off-limits to interrogation."

"Ju's not here, so her rules don't apply," Sadie pointed out. "Besides, she only used that rule whenever it suited her - she never actually observed it herself when it came to questioning _me_."

"Oldest sister's prerogative," Abby argued.

"Well I'm the oldest present at this time," Sadie observed pompously. "So I say the rule is overruled."

Exasperated, Abby rolled her eyes. "_Fine_." Changing her tactic, she turned to Davey. "You're _sworn_ to secrecy, David," she said severely. "Don't tell her _anything_." And with a final huff in her older sister's direction, Abby marched off to her room.

Davey tried not to smile. Abby may have been mature and well-spoken for her age, but she was still nine years old, and she had that same theatrical superciliousness that he saw in Les on occasion. Perhaps the two younger siblings weren't so different after all.

"Well, I suppose there's nothing further I can say," he said jokingly, "so I'll be heading out now." He was about to bid the landlord and his daughter good night when Philip Becker suddenly spoke up.

"David, since you're heading back to the theater, could I possibly appeal to you for another favor?"

Sadie began shaking her head. "Papa, no - "

"Sadie is going to be spending the night at Margaret's," the landlord continued, "and she keeps insisting that she can walk over alone, but I'd rather that she didn't. I was planning to escort her myself, but one of our tenants just stopped by and needs assistance with an urgent matter, and I don't want to keep him waiting. Would you mind...?"

"Papa, I'll be fine," Sadie protested. "There's no need to inconvenience Davey; Margaret's place is close enough, and it's really not that late."

"It's no trouble to walk you over," Davey said quickly. "Really. I don't mind."

"There, you see, Sadie?" the landlord smiled. "As you said, Margaret's isn't that far out of the way, so there's no reason why you shouldn't take David up on his offer."

Sadie grimaced, looking unhappy with the arrangement. "Well...I suppose I've been out-voted," she conceded reluctantly, gathering up her bags.

"Here, let me take that." Davey relieved her of the satchel which she relinquished with a word of thanks, and they made their way to the door, bidding Philip Becker goodnight before exiting the apartment and walking down the stairs to the street.

"I apologize for my father's uncharacteristic opportunism," Sadie said, still sounding put out. "It's not like him to ask for favors like that. He can be a little overprotective at times." She motioned slightly to the left, and they turned down a brightly-lit street.

"There's nothing to apologize for," Davey insisted. "You've done so much for me that it's a relief to be able to return the favor - although I suppose this wasn't something you asked for, so maybe it's not really a favor in that sense..."

"I didn't mean to sound ungracious." Sadie gave him an apologetic look. "I'm grateful for your company, Davey. I just didn't want to keep you away from the rally any longer than necessary. I know it's a big night for you, and you've already done my family the service of accompanying one Becker sister to her destination; you certainly don't need to be inconvenienced with another."

Before he could protest her statement, she changed the subject. "Speaking of which, how is the rally going so far from the standpoint of its master strategist?" She smiled up at him. "Did our signs manage to keep the masses from wandering aimlessly about Irving Hall?"

"The rally's going well so far," Davey answered, "and our signs worked perfectly - no aimless wandering to report."

"I'm pleased to hear that," Sadie replied. "It seems that all of your careful planning has paid off." They turned down another street, and Davey quickly took the opportunity to mentally re-orient himself so that he wouldn't get lost on the way back to the theater.

"What do you and Margaret have planned for the evening?" he asked, once he'd gotten his bearings.

"Oh, nothing particularly riveting," Sadie said lightly. "A few of the girls from our class spend the night at her family's apartment on occasion. We'll probably stay up half the time talking, and perhaps we'll play a few games and maybe do a little baking in the morning. I usually get relegated to the role of taste-tester since the girls all know I'm useless in any other culinary capacity, but perhaps tomorrow will be the day I finally redeem myself." She shrugged, then continued, "There's nothing particularly interesting to discuss on that account. However…" she gave him an inquisitive look, "I _am_ curious to know what you and my sister were plotting on the way home. It must be a rather intriguing secret, since Abby was so intent on making sure I didn't find it out."

"It _is_ an intriguing secret," Davey answered solemnly, unable to pass up the opportunity to tease her just a bit. "And I'm sure its subject would be of interest to you."

"Well then," Sadie suggested, "couldn't you could enlighten me on the matter?"

"I suppose I could," Davey conceded "...but," he grinned at her, "I won't."

"Davey!"

"I've been _sworn_ to secrecy, Sadie," he laughed, amused at the affronted pout she gave him. "I can't go breaking Abby's trust!"

Sadie huffed, sounding uncannily similar to her aforementioned younger sister. "Your integrity is most inconvenient in this instance," she said stiffly. "I suppose I must content myself with conjecture, then." But Davey saw a smile tugging at the corners of her lips.

They crossed the street and came to a well-kept apartment complex. "Here's Margaret's," Sadie said, slowing her pace as they came to a streetlamp just outside the entrance to the building. "I'll be fine from here."

Davey had slung the satchel over his shoulder during the course of the walk, and as he moved to return it to her, it jostled against him a bit and he heard the faint tinkling sound of a small metal object hitting the ground and rolling a foot or two away to where it lay gleaming in the lamplight.

_Not again..._

"Is that my thimble?" Sadie asked in disbelief, reaching down to get it at the same time that Davey moved to pick it up.

They bumped heads.

"Oh!" Sadie exclaimed, looking a little dazed. "I'm sorry, Davey, I didn't - "

"It's my fault," he said at the same time. "I shouldn't have - "

They both reached for the thimble again, and this time, a jolt of awareness shot through Davey as his fingers accidentally brushed against hers.

"Sorry!" he apologized, pulling his hand back. "You go ahead."

Sadie picked up the tiny piece of copper, smiling as she did so. "Well, we're certainly the coordinated pair, aren't we?" she joked. "I'd venture to say I don't know which one of the two of us is more clumsy! But at least our mutual lack of agility is out in the open now, so there's no need to maintain a facade of sophistication in each other's company."

"You're not clumsy," Davey said quickly. "It's definitely me." He gave her a worried look, trying to ascertain if their collision had done any damage. "I didn't hurt you, did I?"

Sadie laughed. "Not at all! If Abby was here, she'd say I'm much too hard-headed to be injured by a little bump like that."

"That _does_ sound like something a younger sibling would say," Davey agreed, smiling in spite of himself, "though Les would probably add that there isn't anything in my head worth worrying about, anyway."

"Little imp," Sadie shook her head with that special mixture of exasperation and fondness characteristic of older siblings. "Just wait until he has to grow up and become responsible - he'll certainly have a greater appreciation for you then."

She held up the thimble. "Speaking of being responsible, I really shouldn't have tasked you with the burden of disposing of my things. I'm happy to take care of it, as I should have from the start." She tucked it away in her handbag.

"Actually…" the word left Davey's mouth before he could stop it. Sadie looked up at him in surprise. "Never mind," he backtracked. Race had already rescued the thimble once from the quick-fingered Calico, and Davey should have known better than to hastily stash it in his pocket like that after such a close call. The leader of the Bronx was right - if he couldn't manage to hang on to it, he probably didn't deserve to keep it.

"Did you...want it back?" Sadie asked, looking at him in confusion as she reached into her handbag.

Davey rubbed the back of his neck. He really didn't understand why the thimble was so important to him, and he instinctively knew that it wasn't something he should discuss with her, but he _did _want it back despite his lack of a clear reason for keeping it…

"I should follow through on what I said I'd do," he mumbled finally, feeling guilty for giving such a vaguely-worded reason especially when he knew that he had no intention of discarding the thimble...at least not immediately.

Sadie regarded him for a moment, looking like she wanted to question him further, but finally she nodded. "Fair enough," came her easy answer. She held out the thimble, and Davey took it, careful to avoid touching her this time.

"Well, I've certainly held you up longer than I should have," Sadie said as she closed her handbag. "I hope I haven't made you miss anything important at the rally."

"You haven't," Davey promised. "And they'll be fine without me."

"I highly doubt that," came her mild answer, "but it's kind of you to assure me by saying so." Smiling at him, she reached up to straighten his newsboy cap which had been knocked askew in their collision. "Thank you for walking me over, Davey," she said, tugging it gently into place. "I hope that the rally turns out to be everything you wanted it to be, and more."

She stepped back and adjusted her bag on her shoulder, giving him a final encouraging look. And then she turned and disappeared into the apartment building, leaving him standing there under the glow of the street lamp, holding her thimble in his hand.


	37. Trouble in the Theater

**Disclaimer: **This is a non-commercial work of fanfiction. Anything recognizable from _Newsies_ belongs to Disney and not to me.

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Chapter 37: Trouble in the Theater

The clock on the back wall of the auditorium was moving far too quickly for Race's liking. Miss Medda was already halfway through the final number in her performance, but there was still no sign of Jack, whose opening speech was up next in the order of events for the night.

Davey had returned from his errand looking oddly distracted, but Race hadn't had time to question him, as the other boy had only stopped by to quickly say that all seemed to be well from the reports of the newsies stationed outside the theater, and that if Jack didn't somehow appear in the next few minutes, Race should skip over his part in the program and proceed to the next thing on the schedule. Race's well-meaning suggestion that Davey ought to just fill in for Jack was met with an uncharacteristically dark scowl and a curt shake of the head, and Davey had walked off quickly after that, leaving Race to wonder how someone who was so adept at wielding his words could be so adamantly opposed to using them. The newsies were in high spirits, and now would have been the perfect time to motivate them with some rousing remarks...but he wasn't here to question things. This was Davey's night, and if he thought it would just be best to move on to the next thing, Race would follow his instructions.

Checking the clock again, Race was about to get up to move into place so that he could easily walk onstage after the final number was finished, but before he could do so, he caught a glimpse of someone moving in the shadows backstage.

…_Jack?_

Race squinted, trying to make sure he wasn't seeing things - but no, his eyes hadn't deceived him. It was definitely the newsie leader who was crouched there, staying well out of sight but just visible enough for Race to see him from his vantage point off to the side of the auditorium.

So. The son-of-a-gun had decided to show up after all. And not a moment too soon...

Race glanced around the auditorium, trying to find Davey, but before he could locate him, Miss Medda's number ended, and a swell of applause was heard throughout the theater. No time for an update, then - they would just have to wing it.

Making his way up to the stage, Race acknowledged the theater owner and her ensemble who received a standing ovation in appreciation for their performance. As they took their bows, he nonchalantly moved off to the side so that he was standing just a few feet from where Jack was hiding. He cracked his knuckles, once, twice, then casually rolled his neck as if to release the tension. Then he scratched his head and settled his cap back into place before walking out to center-stage to address the crowd.

To anyone else, it would have looked like just a mindless display of impatience or perhaps nerves. But Jack would have known it for the sign that it was - a subtle warning to pay attention and to be ready. They'd used it before when they'd needed to secretly communicate without anyone else knowing, and Race was sure that Jack would pick up on the signal. It was the best he could do by way of a tip-off.

_Sure hope you's ready for your speech, Jacky-boy. _

Putting his concerns aside, Race slapped on a smile and addressed the crowd. "Well, now that Miss Medda's gotten us off on the right foot, we's gonna have a chance to hear from the man who started this whole thing, the newsie who led the strike against _The World _and gave us a reason to stand tall! We all is here tonight because of him, because he stood up to Pulitzer and told the old man we ain't backin' down until he does business with us, until he puts the pape prices back where they belong!"

Race paused for a moment as hearty applause broke out from the crowd. The only half-sincere words had rolled off of his tongue easily (strategically describing Jack's role in the strike was just like hawking a headline, after all, and Race was better at improving the truth than the average newsie), but still, they left a bitter taste in his mouth.

He continued.

"This newsie has been the face of the strike and the leader of the newsboy union, and I know we's all gettin' antsy to hear what he's gotta say, so let's welcome him up here - ladies and gents, I give you Jack Kelly!"

The newsies began chanting Jack's name, shouting and clapping, and Race looked over to see the newsie leader hesitating in the wings. It was the first time he'd made eye contact with the Jack since the strike had begun, and Race was surprised to see that the other boy - who never seemed to want for vigor - looked worn out and drawn, as though he hadn't slept for days.

A tiny bit of sympathy inched its way in.

Stepping off to the side so that Jack could take his place, Race motioned him over to center stage, repeating the gesture a little more impatiently when Jack continued to hang back.

_Oh for cryin' out loud…_

Race added his voice to the others shouting Jack's name, riling up the crowd and motioning for them to continue chanting until finally Jack seemed to shake off whatever was hindering him and strode purposefully onto the stage.

The newsies cheered. Jack held up his hands abruptly, quelling the applause.

"Fellas," he began slowly, looking around the theater, "You all is here tonight because Pulitzer decided to raise the price of papes, makin' us pay ten cents more a hundred so he could rake in the profits. It was a rotten thing to do, so we took a stand and went on strike, demandin' for him to put the price back to where it was before. And it was workin', for a while - we stopped the wagons, ripped up the papes, and kept the scabbers from deliverin' _The World_."

A smattering of applause broke out, and Jack once again held up his hands.

"But since then, we's been at a standstill," he continued. "We haven't backed down, but neither has Pulitzer. His circulation may be hurtin'...but he's got thousands of dollars behind him, so a few weeks is nothin' to him. But what've we got, fellas? Huh? The shirts on our backs, and maybe enough change to get us through a few days. We's gonna be in a tight spot soon, and believe me, the old man knows it."

A murmur of dismay swept through the auditorium at his words. Race frowned. _What the… _

Something wasn't right. Race couldn't put his finger on what exactly was off about Jack, but the forced way he was delivering his speech made the words sound stiff and scripted, as though they'd been memorized, almost as though it was someone else speaking with Jack's voice. Race wasn't the kind to get unsettled easily, but he felt the hairs on the back of his neck standing up, and a nervous energy began to hum through him, the kind of feeling you got when you knew that someone was watching you, but you had no idea where they were hidden.

The theater was eerily still, every newsie hanging on Jack's next words, and Race almost missed the nearly-imperceptible movement of Davey making his way up to the front row of the theater. He slid into an empty seat next to Spot, his eyes trained on the stage, his expression tense and worried. Race caught his eye for just a moment, and Davey gave him a bewildered look. He, too, sensed that something was wrong, but had no idea what was happening or how to stop it.

They'd planned for a possible attack from Pulitzer and his goons. They hadn't planned on something like this.

Jack continued speaking.

"Let me ask ya somethin,'" he said, his gaze once again sweeping the auditorium. "How long do ya think we can keep this up, huh? How many days can you go without workin'?"

Race saw Davey get to his feet at that. He wasn't sure exactly what the other newsie was planning to do, but it was clear that someone needed to step in soon. Jack caught the movement too, and Race watched as he turned towards Davey, fixing his attention fully on the dark-haired boy as though he was speaking to him and him alone.

"We gotta be realistic," Jack said, the stiffness in his voice softening perceptibly, and if Race didn't know better, he would have thought that there was a note of pleading in it. "We gotta think about survivin,' ya know? This ain't no game, goin' on strike. We's up against someone we got no chance of beatin', and he don't care a _lick_ if we starve. So it ain't…" he faltered, pausing for a moment, then continued forcefully, "So it ain't the time for big words and big ideas. It's time to stop runnin' our mouths and actually start usin' our heads."

Race winced. On the surface, Jack's statement wasn't all that strong. But to Davey, who had put so many of his words into the strike's conception and had slowly come to be its most vocal supporter, to Davey who had agonized over every decision and its potential implications, the implicit criticism had probably hurt a lot more.

Jack turned towards the rest of the crowd, and Race caught just a glimpse of the stunned look on Davey's face before Jack's upraised arms blocked his view.

"So here's what I say, fellas," the newsie leader continued, the edge back in his tone. "I say that we give up the strike, disband the union, and go back to work. I've spoken to Pulitzer myself, and he's agreed that if we return peacefully, he will not raise his prices again for the next - "

"What are you sayin,' Kelly?" Spot interjected angrily, surging to his feet.

"I'm sayin' we take Pulitzer up on his offer and go back to work," Jack replied as the Brooklyn leader walked closer to the stage, quiet and menacing. "He's givin' us a chance to lock in the prices for the next two years, and he even volunteered to put it in writin' for us - "

Spot cursed loudly, unwilling to hear any more, and the theater erupted into chaos. The Brooklyn leader took a step towards the stage, his expression dark and furious, and almost as quickly, Davey was in front of him, holding Spot back and saying something that Race couldn't hear over the din. The Brooklyn leader could still yell, though, and he hurled a blistering insult at Jack which Race was sure the other boy couldn't have failed to catch.

He _hoped_ Jack had heard it.

Race was about to walk over to Jack himself and give him a piece of his mind, but Jack was already being shoved roughly into the wings by a handful of newsies who had managed to make it up to the stage. He suddenly stopped short, and Race watched in disbelief as a portly, well-dressed man emerged from the shadows, a smirk on his face and a stack of bills in his hand. He slapped the money into Jack's chest, then abruptly stumbled back as Jack took the money and shoved him hard into the darkness.

Race almost couldn't believe what he had just seen.

"You're a sellout, Jack!"

"You dirty traitor!"

"I'll soak ya, you bum!"

But he couldn't have imagined it - not when the rest of the newsies had clearly seen the same thing.

Race glimpsed a flash of red, and suddenly Spot was barreling onto the scene, his eyes trained on Jack who was still standing off on the side of the stage with the stack of bills in his hand. But before the Brooklyn leader could reach his target, Les Jacobs somehow made it over to Jack, and Race felt disbelief hit him again as the younger boy innocently tapped Jack on the shoulder, then flinched back with a cry of dismay as Jack turned on him with an upraised arm, looking as though he was about to strike.

Les fled the scene, and Race watched as Jack turned and ran in the opposite direction, into the backstage labyrinth of Irving Hall. He undoubtedly knew his way around better than the rest of them and knew that they wouldn't be able to follow him once he'd gotten his money and made his escape.

He'd been playing them all along.

Race ground his teeth in frustration, looking around the theater for Davey, but he couldn't locate him in the crowd. The Manhattan boys were milling about in confusion, some looking bewildered, others gesturing wildly. Calico and a few of her newsies had made it to the stage, and the Bronx leader was speaking animatedly with Spot, whose Brooklyn boys were the only ones who hadn't broken formation in the midst of the chaos. All around the auditorium, newsies were pouring out of their seats, into the aisles and towards the exits, and Race knew that if the theater emptied and everyone disbursed, the Manhattan contingent could say goodbye to any hope of gaining support for the strike.

Things were completely unraveling.

The gambler shook his head, gritting his teeth in determination. He refused to be licked. Not by Pulitzer. Not by his lackeys. Not by Jack. _Especially_ not by Jack.

"Spot! Cal!" Race snapped, catching the attention of the newsie leaders. "Stop them from leavin' - this ain't over yet." Spot nodded, and he and Calico sprang into action, following the command as Race turned on his heel to hurry backstage, trusting that his allies would be able to regain order.

He had another job to do.


	38. Time to Speak Up

**Disclaimer: **This is a non-commercial work of fanfiction. Anything recognizable from _Newsies_ belongs to Disney and not to me.

* * *

Chapter 38: Time to Speak Up

Davey followed the sound of Les' sniffling as he made his way quickly through the maze of backdrops and props littering Irving Hall's backstage area. His thoughts were clamoring for attention and his emotions were fighting for control, but he'd been an older brother far longer than he'd been a newsie or a strike leader, and he'd instantly pushed his own feelings aside and had defaulted to familial instinct when he'd seen Les flinch away from Jack's upraised hand and bolt into the darkness backstage. The rally was in chaos and the strike might be done for, but Davey would deal with the fallout of that reality later.

His little brother needed him.

It didn't take long for the older boy to find Les huddled behind a large trunk, almost completely hidden from view. Upon catching sight of Davey, he sniffled loudly and swiped a hand across his eyes, attempting to dash away the tears. Davey eased himself down into a sitting position and put his arm around the younger boy. He'd done this fairly often in the past (though it had been years since Les had been willing to accept his comfort), and memories of scraped knees and lost toys and sad goodbyes suddenly came rushing back as he heard Les sniffling loudly into his shoulder and felt the warmth of the younger boy's tears begin to soak through the fabric of his shirt.

"D-David," Les whimpered, "did I d-do something wrong to make Jack angry?"

"No, Les," Davey said as soothingly as he could. "You didn't do anything wrong. I don't think Jack meant to react like that."

"But he looked so upset," Les protested.

Davey hesitated for a moment before answering. His brother (thank God) had rarely been on the receiving end of uncontrolled displays of ire - both of their parents were generally level-headed, and Davey himself hardly ever lost his temper - so it made sense that Jack's reaction would have shocked and hurt him. But Davey also instinctively sensed that Jack, in his right mind, would never have raised a hand to Les or to any of the younger newsies. It wasn't like him; it didn't make sense.

None of it made sense.

"I think Jack probably _was_ upset," Davey said gently, wanting to validate Les' statement, "...but I _know _he wasn't upset at you."

"How do you know that?" Les demanded, looking up.

"I just do. You're going to have to trust your older brother on this one."

Les sniffled in reply, but he didn't seem to be crying anymore. For a moment, they sat in silence, and the dull roar of the chaos unfolding in the theater was the only sound filling the void.

"Does this mean the strike's over?" Les asked quietly. "Since we've lost Jack, won't Brooklyn and the rest of the city's newsies bail, too?"

"Brooklyn and the rest ain't goin' anywhere," came a voice. Davey looked up to see Race walking over to them with a determined look on his face. "Just because some plain-spoken know-nothin' cocky little son of a -"

Davey cleared his throat loudly, directing a meaningful glance in Les' direction, and the gambler caught himself just in time.

" - we ain't licked yet, is all I'm sayin,'" he finished, coming to a stop in front of the Jacobs brothers. "But," he jerked his thumb over his shoulder, "there's a theater full of newsies out there who's waitin' for the rallyin' speech they never got, so like it or not, you's up, Davey."

"Wait - what? _Me?_" Davey sprang to his feet as a jolt of anxious energy surged through him.

Race rolled his eyes. "Last I checked, you was the only one named 'Davey' around here," he answered. "Yes, nitwit - _you_."

"Race, I - I can't," Davey protested, beginning to panic. "I haven't prepared anything, and after what just happened with Jack, it's going to be even harder to convince the other newsies to join the strike, impossible maybe! I can't be the one to take on that responsibility - I'm not any good at speaking in front of crowds, and the rest of the newsies don't even know me! I shouldn't be the one doing this."

"You got someone else better in mind?" Race asked sarcastically.

"_Anyone else _would be better than me!" Davey exclaimed. "You - or...or Spot - "

"That bummer don't know half as much about the strike as you do," Race interrupted, "and I ain't a motivational kind of guy, remember? You want me to get 'em to forget about their troubles and start a song and dance, I'll do that..." he gave Davey a sober look. "But if you's lookin' to save this rally, Dave, then you's gonna have to be the one to do the job."

"I don't _want_ that kind of responsibility!" Davey snapped, his alarm making him uncharacteristically sharp.

"And I never wanted to lead this thing in the first place!" Race retorted. "But like it or not, we's here, and we gotta step up. The fellas have put everything on the line for this strike, Davey - we haf'ta be willin' to do the same!"

Davey exhaled in frustration but didn't answer, needing a moment to process his racing thoughts. This wasn't part of the plan; he'd never actually considered the possibility of something like this happening, and though he could see the sense in what Race was saying, the suggestion was daunting to say the least.

_Could_ the rally really be saved? Could the rest of the city's newsies be won over, despite Jack's betrayal?

And was Davey really the one for the job?

The memory of what he'd said to Spot only the day before came back to him unbidden: _Whatever happens at the rally, I'm going to see the strike through to the end. I didn't come this far to lose. _

He'd said those words with absolute sincerity. But this wasn't how he'd expected things to go.

Race's voice broke into his thoughts. "Come on, you bummer," he said with uncharacteristic mildness. "I ain't gonna believe for a second that you don't got a single thing to say to that crowd out there. Jack was the face of the strike, sure...but you's always been the voice." He put his hand on Davey's shoulder. "We ain't got time for second-guessin'. You got the words inside of you, Dave. It's time for you to speak up."

Davey's last feeble attempt at protest died in his throat.

"I know you can do it," Les said softly as he rose to join them.

"And how do you know that?" Davey asked, suddenly weary but touched at the show of support from these two who rarely verbalized their affirmation.

"I just do," Les grinned, echoing his brother's earlier statement. "You're going to have to trust me on this one."

"There, ya see?" Race declared, slinging his arm around Les' shoulder. "This kid's got it right. If you ain't gonna take it from me, you gotta at least take it from him." He grinned. "You ain't gonna win this one, Davey - we got you surrounded."

"All right, all right," Davey grumbled, shaking his head in resignation. He had no idea how he was going to pull this off, but what did they have to lose? Race was right - they needed to be willing to put everything on the line. And if that meant somehow pushing through his anxiety concerning public speaking, so be it. Even if he failed spectacularly, at least he could go to sleep that night knowing he'd given it everything that he could.

Adjusting his cap on his head, Davey turned to his brother. "Are you going to be okay, Les?" he asked.

The younger boy nodded.

"I'll stay here with ya, kid," Race offered amiably. "We's gonna have the best seats in the house back here while we watch your brother work his magic."

"Don't say that," Davey muttered tersely. "I can't promise you anything."

Race gave him a dismissive wave. "Am-scray, punk," he ordered. "Time's wastin', and this rally ain't gonna save itself." He grinned.

Davey nodded soberly, appreciating the confidence but unable to return it, then turned to walk back towards the wings. The crowd was much quieter now; he could hear the murmuring of faint conversation, but it was no longer the commotion that had broken out after Jack's betrayal.

_Jack…_ he thought. _Why did you do it?_

Davey forcefully pushed the question aside. _Not the time or the place. Deal with it later. _He'd reached his destination and was standing just off-stage.

He could see Spot positioned in front of the first row of seats off to the right, his arms crossed, looking as imposing as ever, and Calico sitting at his left, perched on a stool. They must have successfully kept the theater from emptying; Davey could hardly tell that anyone had left. He had an almost-full house waiting for him.

His heart began to pound.

_You've done this before_, he reminded himself. _At the distribution center. At the lodging house. At home with your parents. At Irving Hall with Jack. You've been advocating for the strike relentlessly for the past week and a half. You can do it again. _

_Breathe. Breathe. Breathe. Breathe. _

He forced his feet to move and strode purposefully onto center-stage, making himself raise his arms in an attention-getting gesture when all he wanted to do was turn around and head for the safety of the wings.

"Newsies of New York!" he cried.

The quiet chatter stopped immediately. Davey felt every eye in the theater trained on him, and he saw Spot and Calico glance at him sharply before both of the newsie leaders silently found their seats in the audience.

It was up to him now.

_Help, _he prayed silently. _Please. _

He lowered his arms. "Newsies of New York," he repeated, "you saw what just happened right in front of your eyes."

His voice shook a little. Davey took a steadying breath, then continued. "You saw how Pulitzer will stop at _nothing_ to win this battle, how he is not above bribery, not above encouraging betrayal from one of our very own."

It hurt to say the words; he was still reeling from the impact of Jack's unexpected disloyalty, and the pain was there, and the anger hovering just beneath a fragile barrier of self-control. But he wouldn't let those emotions surface now. He couldn't speak from them - they could be treacherous. And while Davey knew that he needed to acknowledge Jack's double-dealing for what it was, he was not going to tear down the newsie who had been their leader.

_Pulitzer's greed is the enemy, not Jack. _

"We've seen tonight that we are up against a ruthless opponent who is trying to strike at the _very thing_ that gives us our power, the _very thing_ that he cannot take away from us," Davey continued. "...and that's our unity." He paused, looking around the slightly-darkened auditorium until his eyes found the Manhattan newsies and the sight of them gave him the courage to go on.

"We may not have thousands of dollars, or a newspaper empire at our backs," he continued, feeling his confidence begin to grow, "but we have each other, and when we stand as one, Pulitzer knows that we're unstoppable. He's tried to stop us with threats from the outside, with attacks from his goons and from the bulls, but he hasn't succeeded, so now he's trying to make us crumble from the inside out. Newsies! Do you know what this means?" He paused to let the question sink in before declaring emphatically, "_He knows we're winning_! This is Pulitzer's last-ditch effort to make us falter. These are the actions of a desperate man, a man so pressed for options that he'd stoop to bribing one of our own to turn against us!" Davey caught Spot's eye. "Pulitzer wouldn't be doing this if he wasn't afraid that we were gaining the upper hand."

Davey began to pace, the need to express his anxious energy growing even as his excitement grew as well. "We may not look like much on the outside," he continued. "We're young and we're poor and we're dependent on the papes to make a living. But we are _not_ nobodies. We have lives and families and dreams of our own, and we _have to_ act as though those things matter...because they do!" A memory of the newsies spouting off their wishes in the dining room of Jacobi's Deli came to him, along with the conviction that those kinds of dreams - no matter how absurd or far-fetched they might seem - were worth fighting for.

"That is why we _cannot _let the newspaper owners tell us that we don't deserve fair wages in return for our work! We _cannot_ let them tell us that our survival isn't important, or that our voices don't count! That's what they might want us to believe, but we know that it is _not_ true. And the only way to prove that to them is to show that we are _not_ backing down until we are acknowledged and heard!"

The words were coming rapidly now, swift and strong and weighted like they had that day at the distribution center, and Davey had to stop himself for a moment to catch his breath.

_Breathe. Breathe. Breathe. _

He looked around the auditorium again, catching the eyes of several familiar faces - Buttons, Albert, Finch, Mush...until he came to Artie and Tucker, who were sitting at the edge of the group.

"There are some of you here tonight who started out on the other side, scabbing for Pulitzer," Davey continued, unable to make himself wait any longer. "But something made you change your minds. Maybe you realized that there was more at stake than the money, or that a little extra change wasn't worth the cost of aligning yourself with a man who didn't have your best interests at heart." He gave Artie and Tucker a meaningful look. "I can't pretend to know why you made that choice," he admitted. "But you did...because somehow you knew that joining the strike was the right thing to do."

Davey turned his gaze to the rest of the audience. "We're all being faced with that same decision tonight - who will we let have the final say? If we give up now, things may go back to normal for a while. But if Pulitzer knows that he can get us to back down, there's _nothing_ to stop him from raising the price of papes again. It's all about money for him, and if we make it about money, we'll just be playing his game - a game we can't win! But if we hold fast to this effort, we have a chance to _change_ the rules of the _entire game_. And that's what we're after. Because we're not just fighting for ourselves - we're fighting for everyone else who's been denied fair compensation for their work, everyone who hasn't been given a voice or a vote, everyone who has lost hope that wrongs can be righted and that things can get better."

The thought of the trolley workers and their families came to him. "Others have fought and are fighting this same battle," he said, his voice lowering a bit. "It's our turn to join them now."

He could almost feel the tension in the crowd, and he knew that he had thrown out every point of persuasion he had. Whatever happened next was up to them.

It was time for the final push.

"Newsies," Davey pleaded, pouring every ounce of exhortation he had left into his last appeal, "we _have_ to see this through! I know that it comes at a cost - and that the cost is high, higher than you might think you're willing to pay. If we had no hope of a successful outcome, there would be no point in paying that price. But I truly believe that we are on the edge of a breakthrough, which is why Pulitzer is trying so hard to crush us, to get us to lose hope. But despite his efforts, I have more hope now than ever that if we stand together _we can win_ this thing."

Davey locked eyes with Spot, Calico, and the rest of the newsie leaders. "Manhattan got the strike started," he said simply. "But we need your help. We can't do this alone." He held out his hands. "Will you join us?"

For a moment, the entire auditorium was silent. No one spoke or moved...

_Breathe_, Davey reminded himself.

_Breathe. _

_Breathe. _

_Breathe._

Then Spot slowly rose to his feet, calm and deliberate, and all of his boys followed suit.

"We're with you," the Brooklyn leader declared firmly in a voice loud enough for everyone to hear.

The rest of the newsie contingents weren't far behind. Soon the entire theater was on its feet, audibly pledging its support to Manhattan and to the strike effort.

The sound of it was exhilarating.

And the sight of it was overwhelming.

Davey lowered his hands slowly, and noticed as he did that they were shaking.

"Hey, not too bad for a newsie who 'ain't any good at speakin' in front of crowds,'" Race remarked, coming out from the wings to stand beside Davey and giving him a good-natured shove in the arm. "Guess you did all right, Dave."

Davey's laugh was weak with relief. "Yeah," he responded, sending up a silent prayer of thanks as he put an arm around Les who had appeared at his side grinning from ear to ear. "I guess that wasn't so bad after all."

* * *

**A/N**: My reasoning for this interpretation of the rally comes from the observation that at the end of the musical, _all_ of the newsies (not just those from Manhattan) are shown as being part of the strike effort and are addressed as "Newsies of New York City" by Jack when he announces that the strike has been won. (Spot is also conspicuously present during the "Once and For All" number). This means that Jack's perceived betrayal at the end of the rally scene wasn't enough to derail the strike (even though the rally appears to end in chaos) - there was something that happened behind the scenes to keep the rest of the city's newsies on board. That "something" - in this story's interpretation - was Davey's follow-up speech, incited by a little well-timed peer pressure from Race and Les and the quick work of Spot and Calico to keep the theater from emptying.

Anyway, just another "missing scene" from your author who thinks probably a little too much about these things. :) I'd love to hear what you thought of my attempt!


	39. Impressions and Instructions

**Disclaimer: **This is a non-commercial work of fanfiction. Anything recognizable from _Newsies_ belongs to Disney and not to me.

* * *

Chapter 39: Impressions and Instructions

Before the newsies disbursed (some for what would be very long walks back to their respective neighborhoods), the leaders held an impromptu meeting in front of the Irving Hall stage. They voted to show their support by following Manhattan's lead and upholding the strike in their own districts, and Race and Davey gave them a quick rundown of how to approach the logistics of the matter as well as some pointers on what to look out for.

It was agreed that some kind of effort would be made soon to hold a group demonstration in front of _The World_, but since they hadn't had time to plan for it and the hour was already growing late, Race promised to deploy runners to each of the other lodging houses whenever an official date and time was decided upon. It wouldn't be right away, as the Manhattan contingent was already taxed from hosting the rally, but it would be soon, as soon as they were able to have sufficient time to recuperate and to strategize about how to make the most of their larger numbers.

That being decided upon, the leaders all shook hands, then prepared to go their separate ways. The Brooklyn detachment, following Spot's orders, had begun assisting the Manhattan boys with cleaning up Irving Hall while the newsie leaders met, and by the time the brief discussion had concluded, nearly everything had been taken care of, which Davey was grateful for.

"Hey, Spot," he said, catching the Brooklyn leader before he mustered his boys for their return march, "thanks for being the first one to show your support. I know it went a long way in convincing everyone to get on board, so...I appreciate it."

"Nothin' to thank me for, Mouth," Spot responded curtly, looking almost irked by Davey's expression of gratitude. "We'll be waitin' for your signal." And without another word, he walked off, his boys falling into step behind him like the well-oiled machine that they were.

The Bronx contingent was right behind them, and Calico gave Race and Davey a little salute as she passed by. "Nice work tonight boys," she remarked drolly. "I guess I'll be seeing you both shortly." She nodded at the gambler - "Until next time, Racetrack," and smirked at Davey - "Thimble." Then she and the rest of her newsies were gone.

"You ain't gonna live that first impression down," Race grinned, patting Davey on the back. "You shoulda just told her why you had that thing in the first place so she could satisfy her curiosity and forget about it - though maybe you was smart not to tell her. She ain't the kind to keep secrets unless it suits her."

"It's not a very interesting story," Davey said quickly.

"Sure it ain't," Race agreed in a voice that said he didn't believe a word of it. He looked around the auditorium, which was by now nearly empty of all except for the Manhattan boys.

"You wanna debrief a little while you and the kid head home?" he asked. "I can send the fellas back and walk with you some before headin' to the lodging house."

"If that won't be too much trouble," Davey answered.

The gambler nodded. "I'll see to the boys - you'd better make sure your brother ain't noddin' off somewhere. Last I saw he was barely keepin' his eyes open."

They went their separate ways, Race calling for the newsies to assemble and Davey going in search of Les. True to Race's prediction, he found the younger boy dozing off in one of the front row seats, leaning against Miss Medda's shoulder. Davey hadn't noticed the theater owner's presence after their initial conversation before the rally, but he knew that she had been around.

He wondered how much she had seen.

"Thank you, Miss Medda," he whispered, coming over to sit beside Les. "Tonight wouldn't have been possible without you."

The kindly woman waved off his appreciation. "You did a great job turning things around," she said, answering Davey's unspoken question as to how much of the rally she had observed. "I'm sure it wasn't easy getting hit with a surprise like that mid-show."

"Yeah, we definitely didn't expect it," Davey admitted.

The feelings that he'd kept bottled up began to stir again.

"I've known Jack for a while," Miss Medda said softly, catching the troubled look on Davey's face, "and I don't know why he did what he did tonight...but I _do_ know it was something that was out of character for him." She paused, shaking her head as though she still couldn't believe it. "Jack was _always_ so protective and so proud of his newsies," she remarked. "Every time he came here, he'd be telling me something or other about what was going on at the lodging house. He told me about the first time he and Race pranked the Delancey brothers over at the distribution center - he was laughing so hard, tears were running down his face! He told about the winter where Buttons came down with that really bad bout of the flu - it made Jack almost sick himself with worry. And he told me about how Sniper beat out every other newsie in New York at an unofficial slingshot context - proud as a peacock about how his boy was the best of the best!" She smiled, then looked at Davey.

"He talked about you, too. He told me you were one of the most well-spoken people he'd ever met, and one of the smartest, too - after that reporter he's been going on and on about ever since the strike began."

Davey smiled. Coming in second to Katherine in Jack's book wasn't too bad, he supposed.

"I know you boys are going to have to figure out what to do now that Jack's turned on you," Miss Medda continued, her tone turning serious, "but don't be too hard on him, David." The exhortation in her voice was that of a mother pleading for her son; Davey had heard it often enough when he'd expressed frustrations about Les to his own mother and had been admonished to have just a little more patience for the younger boy.

He nodded. "I'll try not to be," he answered honestly.

"Good." Miss Medda smiled. Les stirred in his sleep and she looked down at him, making a sympathetic sound. "The poor dear isn't used to being out this late, is he?" she observed.

"No, he's not," Davey answered. "This is way past his bedtime."

"Well, you'd better get going." Miss Medda glanced over her shoulder at the clock on the wall, then gently shook Les' shoulder. "Wake up, honey," she cooed. "Your brother's here now to take you home."

Les yawned, then snuggled once again into her shoulder, and Davey caught the wistful look that briefly crossed the theater owner's face before she jostled Les again, more firmly this time. "I know you're tired, dear, but you need to wake up," she murmured. "You'll sleep better in your own bed. Come on. Up." This time she accompanied her directive with a little push, and Les reluctantly stumbled to his feet, blinking sleepily.

"Is it over, David?" he mumbled.

"Yes, it's over," Davey said, putting an arm around Les to steady him. "We're going to head home now. Say goodbye and thank you to Miss Medda, all right?" Les thanked the theater owner, then impulsively gave her an affectionate hug which she was delighted to return. Davey expressed his thanks as well, and after a final goodbye, the Jacobs brothers went in search of Race. The gambler had just finished sending off the rest of the Manhattan newsies, who, under the watchful eyes of a few of the older boys, were making their way down the street in the direction of the lodging house.

"Good thing those bummers is startin' to get tired," Race remarked, not sounding fatigued himself in the slightest. "Otherwise it'd be like heardin' cats tryin' to get 'em all back home and into bed." He ruffled Les' hair. "You ready to go home yourself, kid?"

Les nodded, his eyes already beginning to droop again.

Race chuckled. "Hey," he said, patting Les on the shoulder, "what do you say to a ride, huh?"

Les voiced his assent at the same time Davey protested, "Race, you don't need to do that."

The other newsie ignored his concern, bending down so that Les could climb on his back. "Been awhile since I've done this," the gambler remarked cheerfully, "but this kid ain't anything I can't handle."

"If he gets too heavy, tell me and I'll take a turn," Davey offered. He couldn't remember the last time he'd given Les a piggyback ride, and he was surprised that his brother had agreed to Race's offer, but maybe the younger boy really was too tired to walk. Thankfully, Les had always been rather small and slight for his age, so he wasn't as heavy as he could have been.

They left the theater, and sure enough, Les seemed to doze off within a matter of minutes, his head drooping against Race's shoulder. "Probably worked out for the best," the gambler observed quietly to Davey, "seein' as I'm pretty sure we's gonna be talkin' about things we wouldn't want the kid to overhear."

Davey sighed. "I guess you're right," he agreed.

They walked in silence for a few moments longer, the questions hanging heavy between them but neither one wanting to be the first to broach the subject.

"Why do you think he did it?" Davey asked finally. "You've known him longer than I have."

Race snorted. "Thought I knew him. I don't have a clue any more than you do."

"Miss Medda said that kind of behavior was really out of character for Jack," Davey insisted. "It seems like there must have been something else involved - besides the money, I mean."

"Money's a big motivator, Dave," Race shrugged. "You know that well as I do."

Davey didn't answer. Something about it didn't _feel_ right, but he couldn't put his finger on what it was. The logic just didn't make sense - why would Jack have been willing to throw away his reputation in front of such a large crowd if he could have just undermined the strike in its earlier stages when Manhattan was the only group involved? There were any number of ways he could have done it that wouldn't have required such a public and full-scale betrayal, a betrayal that had cost Jack not just the trust of his own lodging house, but the respect of the newsie leaders across the city as well. Even if money _was_ the motivator, wouldn't it have made more sense to do things quietly and then collect?

The deal must have been struck recently, he decided, most likely when Jack had gone to see Pulitzer to invite him to speak at the rally. The newsie leader had gone in hoping to make an ally and instead had been lured into joining the enemy's camp.

But was money really enough to make Jack cave? That was the question that refused to leave Davey's mind. The answer seemed to be clear...but what wasn't clear was whether or not it was an adequate explanation. Race seemed to think so; others, like Miss Medda, were less sure.

_I have to be overlooking something_, Davey thought. He didn't trust his instincts in this case, because the truth was that he'd really only known Jack for a few days prior to the strike, and the newsie leader had disappeared shortly after its inception. In fact, Jack had been missing longer than he'd been a present for the short time that Davey had been a newsie, so drawing any kind of reliable conclusion as to his character was a dubious exercise at best.

He wished that Race had more to say about his history with Jack - the gambler seemed to have implied in an earlier conversation that sudden short disappearances weren't uncommon, but that was only conjecture on Davey's part - Race had never said as much, and he didn't seem to want to talk about it.

"What do you think the boys thought about tonight?" Davey asked, deciding to throw out a neutral question and let Race take the conversation in a direction he was comfortable with.

"'Bout the rally itself? Or 'bout Jack?" the other boy asked, confoundingly batting the decision back into Davey's hands.

"Both." He could parry, too.

"Pretty sure they liked the entertainment, thought you gave a pretty good speech even if you talked a little too much, and that Jacky's a dirty rotten sellout," Race said bluntly. "Loyalty is big for the boys - they ain't gonna forgive that kinda double-dealin' easily, 'specially not when Jack already ran on them after the fight with the bulls. I think if he'd come back eventually, they would've overlooked it, but after tonight…" Race shook his head. "He had it comin.'"

"Do you think he'll come back to the lodging house?" Davey asked.

Race snorted. "That son-of-a-gun's probably halfway to Santa Fe right now with the money he got from sellin' out. Nah, Davey," he scoffed. "I'd put money on Jack bein' gone for good. He knows he ain't gonna be welcome with us after what he did, and there's no point in him stickin' around now, not with that kinda cash in his pocket. So like it or not, we's gonna be seein' this thing through to the end, though at least we got some newsies to back us up now, thanks to that speech of yours."

"I suppose we'd better start planning again," Davey said, feeling both excited and a little fatigued at the thought.

"No more plannin' till we've had some rest," Race interjected firmly. "We did what we set out to do tonight. It's time to drink in the moment and celebrate the victory." When Davey didn't answer right away, Race gave him an uncharacteristically stern look. "Ya hear me, Dave?" he pressed. "No more strategizin'. Shut down that brain of yours for a few hours so you can get some shut-eye, alright?"

"Did you come all the way here just to tell me to stop thinking?" Davey asked incredulously. He'd assumed that Race had wanted to talk about Jack or about the next steps they would take for the strike, but the gambler hadn't seemed inclined to talk about either of those things.

Race shrugged. "Can't have you burnin' out on me, Davey," he answered matter-of-factly. "You's the only partner I got left now."

It was a straightforward statement, but there was a barely-perceptible note of sadness in it that Davey had never heard in the other boy's voice before, and he wondered if Race really wasn't taking Jack's betrayal as much in stride as he was letting on. He knew that Race was angry and had been angry for a while...but maybe something more was there as well.

The conversation dwindled significantly after that, each of them seemingly content to walk silently, lost in his own thoughts, and before Davey knew it, they had reached his family's tenement.

"Alright, kid," Race said, gently easing Les down off of his back. "You's gonna have to climb the stairs by yourself, but it'll be a short trip, and your bed's waitin.'' He grinned, putting a hand on the sleepy boy's shoulder. "I know you's tired, but I got somethin' I need you to do for me, all right?"

Les nodded, still drowsy but eager to help.

"You make sure your brother gets some rest tonight, got it?" Race jerked his thumb in Davey's direction. "I don't care what'cha have to do - sit on him, sing him a lullaby, whatever it takes to keep him in bed until he's gotten a few hours of sleep so he can be ready to seize the day tomorrow. Can you do that?"

"Sure, Racer," Les answered, sounding determined.

Race clapped him on the shoulder. "Good man." He smirked at Davey. "Make sure you listen to your brother, all right? No thinkin.'"

"Will you be all right going back?" Davey asked, a little concerned at the lateness of the hour and the fact that Race would be making the trip back to the lodging house alone (though he supposed he should have thought of that before agreeing to have the other boy accompany them back to their tenement).

Race gave his characteristic dismissive wave. "I'll be fine - the boys'll be lookin' for me, so I ain't worried." He gave both brothers a cocky grin. "I'll see ya tomorrow." And with that, he turned and began walking in the direction of the lodging house, his footsteps quickly fading away into the night.

"Let's go, Les," Davey said, motioning up the stairs.

They walked back to their family's apartment, and Davey opened the door quietly. As expected, their father had already gone to bed, but their mother was still up, reading at the kitchen table by the glow of her flickering candle.

"How did the rally go?" she asked excitedly, rising from her seat to greet them at the door.

"It went all right," Davey answered. "Not what we expected, but pretty much what we'd hoped for." He removed his cap and hung it on the hook by the door, helping Les with his bowler hat as well.

"The rally went _great,_" the younger boy said, still sleepy but clearly wanting to give his own version of the night's proceedings. "The place was packed out - newsies from all over the city came. Miss Medda's entertainment was a hit, and David made a speech that got everyone on board with the strike!"

"David, that's wonderful!" their mother exclaimed. "But I'm not surprised. You have a way with words, and you've put so much thought into this rally that I'm sure your speech had a weight to it that made the other newsboys listen."

Davey shrugged, a little embarrassed by the praise. He was surprised that Les hadn't mentioned anything about Jack's betrayal, but was grateful for the uncharacteristic show of sensitivity on the younger boy's part.

"Well, you know I want to hear all about it tomorrow," their mother said, "but it's late, and you both need to get to bed." She gave each of her sons a hug. "I'm so proud of you, and your father will be too once he hears of what you've accomplished." With a smile, she sent them off to get ready for bed, and Davey found himself beginning to feel the first signs of weariness as he went through the familiar routine of helping Les wash up and get into bed before preparing for sleep himself.

As he took off his vest to hang it up, he remembered the thimble and fished it out of his pocket, holding it in his hand. In some ways, it was the only tangible symbol of the rally that he had now - the signs he'd spent hours making were disassembled, placed out back behind Irving Hall to be disposed of. The words he'd spoken to the newsies were gone, dispersed into thin air, never again to be recalled in their specificity now that they had served their purpose. He'd lost his written notes for the night somewhere in the theater when things had taken a turn for the unexpected (and there hadn't really been a need for a formal program after that). All of it was gone now...except for this tiny object. It hadn't really played an integral part in any of the night's proceedings, but it had somehow shown up here and there, woven unobtrusively throughout the rally's narrative.

Now that he thought about it, the thimble actually symbolized more than just the rally. It was a reminder that he had friends. Friends who would drop everything to help him with a project on the rooftop. Friends who would steal back a pickpocketed item with no questions asked, just because the item was important to him. Friends (and brothers) who would stand behind him and his words, even when his delivery was imperfect and faltering. Friends who took the time to care and to challenge him.

Davey set the thimble in a tray on top of the bookshelf by his bed, shaking his head a little at his digression into sentimentality. He knew that he was being ridiculous - it was the boy who had moved five times and was the perpetual new kid who was talking now, not his level-headed, rational self. This was probably why Race had felt it necessary to advise him against too much thinking. There was no reason to get so choked up about it. The rally had been successful, the strike was still on, and that was what mattered. That was enough.

Satisfied, Davey finished getting ready for bed, not realizing how tired he was until he laid down and a wave of exhaustion hit him out of nowhere. He closed his eyes, listening to the familiar sound of Les snoring softly beside him, content and at peace...

...and in a matter of minutes, he too fell into a deep and dreamless sleep.


	40. Moving Forward

**Disclaimer: **This is a non-commercial work of fanfiction. Anything recognizable from _Newsies_ belongs to Disney and not to me.

* * *

Chapter 40: Moving Forward

Jack found himself running again, stumbling blindly down side-streets and alleyways. His feet ached, his lungs burned, and the weight in his chest felt so heavy that he didn't know how he was still upright...but he kept running.

He'd been running for a very long time. Minutes? Hours? It felt like hours.

He was free, and yet he was completely trapped, trapped with no friends, no future, no place to go...

Well, that last part wasn't completely true. The money was there, burning a hole in his pocket and pressing against him with every step that he took.

He'd almost thrown the stack of bills into the harbor as he'd passed in an irrational, desperate bid to free himself, but logic kicked in just as he was about to do so, and with a desperate cry he'd checked his hand, clenching the money in his fist before shoving it angrily back into his pocket. Then he took off running again.

Minutes (hours?) later when his legs finally gave out, he slowed to a stop, leaning heavily against the wall of a now-deserted factory before eventually sliding down into a sitting position on the ground.

He pulled out the stack of bills and looked at it. It was probably a really foolish thing to do; he didn't know who might be watching, and this kind of money was definitely something someone would be willing to mug him for - but that desperate, anguished side of him almost longed for a fight, for some way to vent his frustration, for a chance to be able to feel _some_ kind of pain, anything to remind him that he was still human despite the terrible thing he had just done.

He couldn't forget the look on Davey's face.

Jack had seen more than his share of anger, disgust, and hostility in his seventeen years of life, but he wasn't used to seeing the expression that Davey had given him - the utterly bewildered look of someone who had been so trusting that the possibility of betrayal hadn't even crossed his mind.

Jack would have vastly preferred his anger.

Flipping distractedly through the stack of bills, he wondered when the next train out to Santa Fe would be leaving. He knew he'd have enough to afford a ticket - more than enough, actually - and he figured that it probably cost less to live out West than it did in New York, so he had the makings of a new life right here in his hands as long as he made smart decisions. He was young and strong and resourceful. That would be enough to get him started.

Forcing himself to his feet, Jack got his bearings, then set off in the direction of the lodging house. He had a few personal belongings still on the rooftop and didn't want to leave his drawings behind either, so he would quietly collect them and then head straight to the train station where he would stay until a train arrived to take him to his destination.

It was late enough where the boys would all be asleep, and even if some of them were on the roof, Jack knew his way around well enough where he wasn't worried about waking them. The one newsie he would have to watch out for would be Race, whose insomnia occasionally drove him to prowl restlessly about the lodging house like a panther. Jack had no doubt that if he happened to come across the gambler their confrontation would not end well, and he mentally prepared himself to run if it came to that. It would be hard to leave his things behind, but he didn't think he could face the disappointment of his second-in-command.

It seemed like disappointing people was all he did these days. He'd failed Crutchie. He'd failed Davey and Race. He'd failed the rest of the newsies. He'd made promises with every intention of keeping them...but all anyone had ever taught him was how to break them.

Unbidden, Jack's thoughts turned to Katherine. His anger against the former reporter had been simmering ever since the shocking revelation of her identity, and it flared to life again as he walked towards the lodging house, fury making his strides swift and purposeful. _She_ was just as much of a double-crosser as he was - more, in fact, because he had at least _tried_ to act with his boys' best interest at heart. But she had kept her connection with Pulitzer a secret and had duped them all.

He didn't know why he had trusted her.

His thoughts continued to churn angrily as he made his way back to the lodging house, slowing just a bit as he drew near to make sure that Race wasn't by some chance skulking about outside. After satisfying himself that the coast was clear, Jack made his way around the back of the building and nimbly climbed up the fire escape that led to the roof.

No sooner had he made it to the top when a familiar voice - the last voice he expected or wanted to hear - reached his ears.

"Well, you sure made quite an impression at that rally."

"What - " Jack checked himself, unable to hide his surprise as he took in Katherine standing on the rooftop. "What are you doin' here?" he asked, trying to keep his ire under control.

"I came here to talk to you," she said as he climbed off of the fire escape and came towards her. He saw a familiar sheaf of papers in her hand and his anger flared up, hotter than before.

"Give me that!" he snarled, snatching the drawings from her grasp. These were some of his most personal sketches, memories of things that he couldn't forget no matter how hard he tried, memories he never spoke of but poured onto paper on nights when he couldn't sleep until he'd let the memories bleed out of his mind and onto the page, memories he didn't want _anyone_ else to know about...least of all _her_.

"Who let'cha up here anyway?" he demanded, rolling the drawings up and stashing them away out of sight.

"Specs caught me as I was leaving Irving Hall trying to find you," she answered evenly. "He showed me the way back here and told me about your penthouse."

"And did he give you permission to snoop through my stuff?"

"I wasn't trying to snoop, Jack! I was just curious. I saw those drawings rolled up and wanted to see what they were."

He answered her explanation with a glare.

"Those drawings...they're heartbreaking," she said, refusing to respond to his anger in kind. "They're of The Refuge, aren't they?"

Jack didn't reply.

"Is that really what it's like in there?"

The compassion in her voice tugged at his heart before he angrily crushed the feeling. He would _not_ let her touch him. "You were expectin' somethin' different?" he sneered. "Maybe satin pillows and sheets and fine china to eat off of?"

The sarcastic jab seemed to have no effect on her. "Jack, I'm _trying_ to understand," she pleaded.

"To understand _what?_" he snapped.

"To understand _you!_ To understand why you would turn on your boys now when you were willing to go to jail for them in the past - because that's what Snyder was talking about, wasn't he? You have a criminal record because you stole food and clothing to help your boys who were in The Refuge!"

"Yeah, and what of it?" Jack asked defensively. He wasn't sure how she'd figured that out; it must have been her reporter's intuition or some kind of knowledge from the inside...but whatever the case, he didn't want to talk to her about the past.

"If you were willing to do that, why weren't you willing to go to jail for them again?" Katherine exclaimed. "What happened to your loyalty?"

"Oh, you are the _last_ person 'round here who's got a right to be talkin' about loyalty," Jack growled. _Of all the nerve!_

"I have been _nothing_ but loyal to you and the newsboys," Katherine declared. "Would I be here if my sympathies didn't lie with the strike? Would I have been willing to put my career on the line and take the consequences and risk the fallout with my father if I didn't believe in you and in the cause?"

"You coulda told us!" Jack shouted, not caring at that point who heard. "You coulda told _me_!" The last word came out sounding hurt and vulnerable, and he hated it.

"I would have, Jack," Katherine said, sounding a little agitated. "I was planning to tell you after the rally - I promise! I just didn't want you to have to think about something else when you already had so much on your mind!"

"Yeah, well keepin' that secret sure turned out well for both of us," he muttered darkly.

"Look, I'm sorry, Jack! If I could have known that this would happen, I would have told you sooner! But it's too late for that, and if we want to have any hope of saving the strike - "

"The strike is over!" Jack hissed, feeling his fists clench in anger. _If she weren't a girl…_ "It's over because of _me_!"

"And _you_ can help get it back on track!" she countered. "If you'd just stop feeling sorry for yourself and listen to me for a moment, you'll see that it's not as hopeless as it looks."

"Last time I trusted you, you turned out to be a rotten backstabber!" The accusation was unfair, and he knew it, but he was angry and hurt and she'd touched on his sensitive spots like it was nothing, and he couldn't forgive her for it.

Katherine's eyes narrowed. "Since we're talking about backstabbing," she said, her tone turning sharp, "let's talk about what you just did to Race. To Davey. To the rest of the newsies. How you sold out on them and on _everything_ they worked so hard for, just to get some money - "

"It wasn't for the money!" Jack snapped. Was that what she really thought of him? That he'd double-cross his brothers just to line his own pockets?

"So prove to me that it wasn't!" she challenged, and he couldn't tell in that moment if he was more relieved that she didn't actually think it of him or more angry to realize that he'd fallen into the trap she'd set so easily.

A terse silence descended.

"I - " Jack began, before stopping abruptly. He didn't owe her an explanation. He didn't have to prove anything to her. But pride made him want to vindicate himself, so he forced the words of explanation into the air.

"I did it to keep them safe. I couldn't - " his voice broke and he made a sound of disgust, angry that he was showing weakness in front of her before continuing stiffly, "I couldn't let them get thrown into The Refuge."

There. He'd said it.

"And besides," he said, elaborating in spite of himself, "your father's right - it's hopeless. We can't keep draggin' this out forever - we gotta be realistic! I don't want the boys to spend all of their reserves on the strike 'till they got nothin' left to live on, and that's what's gonna happen if things don't change soon!"

"'_If' _things don't change soon," Katherine repeated, giving him a knowing look. "But that's what I've been trying to tell you, Jack. Change _is_ coming."

"Oh, sure," he scoffed.

"Were you this obstinate with Davey when he was trying to get you to rejoin the strike?" Katherine demanded.

He _really_ didn't want to think about Davey right then.

When Jack failed to answer, Katherine muttered something under her breath about "the patience of Job" before continuing. "Look, I know this may seem hard to believe," she said, a hint of sarcasm in her voice, "but you're not the only one who can come up with a good idea. And I've got an idea that I think will give us the victory we've been looking for." She held a piece of paper up enticingly.

"_The Newsies Banner..._Children's Crusade," he read. She handed him the document, which he quickly perused as she looked on.

There were the words, the words of his speech at the distribution center, jumping right off of the page at him. How had she…? And why...? Jack read on, comprehension slowly dawning upon him as her words intermingled with his, seamlessly woven into an impassioned plea that even his calloused, hurting heart was finding hard to ignore.

His hands gripped the paper a bit more tightly. This was something powerful.

Jack gave the former reporter a wry smile, the irony not lost on him. "So...we's gonna fight the papes with a pape of our own?" he asked, slowly handing the document back to her.

She nodded eagerly. "My article, one of your drawings, all of the newsies distributing this all over New York - just think, Jack! Think of what this could do! We could have the whole city on strike! And there's no way the newspaper owners could ignore _that._"

"Yeah," Jack laughed, finding himself caught up in her enthusiasm. "Guess they couldn't." He had to admit it was a brilliant idea. This was something that none of them had considered before, but the timing was right, and if anything had a chance of bringing the strike to a successful conclusion, it was something like this.

A thought suddenly crossed his mind. "The only problem is...where are we gonna print somethin' like that?" he asked, reluctant to voice the objection. "Ain't a publisher in town who'll let us use their printin' press."

Katherine didn't answer. Apparently she hadn't thought of that.

For a moment it was silent as they both racked their brains for an answer.

Suddenly, the solution came to Jack. _Of course, _he thought sardonically.

"I got it," he said aloud. Katherine looked up excitedly. "Your father - he's got an old printin' press down in his cellar," Jack began, "and no one would ever think we'd use it, so it's our best shot to - "

"Jack, that is genius!" Katherine exclaimed. She started towards the fire escape that led down from the rooftop. "Come on, let's get the boys on board and get to it!" she urged. When he didn't move, she stopped, already halfway down the steps.

"Is something wrong?"

Jack hesitated. There _was_ something wrong, but he wasn't sure he wanted to disclose it to her. She was waiting patiently, though...and she hadn't snapped back at him despite his surliness, and the moonlight was casting a pale glow in her hair that was making his artist's mind run wild with possibilities, and despite the fact that he'd been almost uncontrollably angry at her only a moment ago, that anger was already beginning to melt away...and he found himself wishing that things had been different - that they'd met under different circumstances, and that were just two people on the rooftop together without the strike or Pulitzer or _The World _complicating things.

"I guess I'm just wantin' to know what this is all about for you," he said, a little more gruffly than he intended. "Not this plan of yours. I mean...this." He gestured between them. "Us."

"Us?"

"Like when we was just talkin' at the theater," Jack elaborated. "Before things got messy with your father and the rally." He gave her a probing look. "I mean, I might be imaginin' things, but I kinda thought that maybe I wasn't the only one feelin' somethin'..."

Katherine climbed back onto the rooftop and walked over to him. "You weren't the only one feeling something," she said simply.

"But it's hopeless, ain't it?" Jack exclaimed, feeling caught between his elation at her words and his despair that nothing could come of their mutual confession. "I mean, girls like you don't wind up with bums like me!"

"Oh, and suddenly the rules matter to you, Jack?" Katherine asked with a little smile.

He couldn't find it in him to respond to her flippancy. "I just wanna know if this is somethin' that we's gonna fight for," he admitted, "or if it's just a passin' thing, and tomorrow's gonna change it all." The vulnerability that he'd been unsuccessfully trying to hide was there again, but this time he barely registered its presence. He really had to know.

"Jack…" Katherine began, "I never saw this coming. I didn't think this is how we'd end up, or that when I started following the strike I'd start having feelings for you." She took a step closer to him, and he saw that she was trying to match his honesty with her own. "I'm just as unsure as you are about how all this is going to turn out, and I can't tell you what tomorrow will bring...but I _do_ want things between us to work." She gave him a knowing look. "Besides, you still owe me a date," she added. "Don't think I'm going to let you get out of your promise _that_ easily."

Jack laughed, shaking his head in wonderment as he felt the rest of his frustration melting away. She really _was_ something else - beautiful, smart, independent...and he couldn't even begin to wrap his mind around her.

"Well, I guess it would be kinda rude of me not to take you to see that show eventually," he agreed, giving her a half-grin. "So, now that we's reached an agreement on that, Plumber, you wanna...you know...shake on it?" He held out his hand to her as it would have to one of the newsies (minus the spitting of course).

Katherine gave his hand a fleeting glance, a smile tugging at the corners of her mouth and a breathless laugh escaping. Then she looked confidently into Jack's eyes, pointedly ignoring his offer...and kissed him soundly on the lips instead.

* * *

**A/N: **So, to be completely honest, the conversation between Jack and Katherine right before "Something to Believe In" is one of my least-favorite scenes in the musical (though that might be an unpopular opinion). The fact that Katherine resorts to surprise-kissing Jack in the middle of a heated argument rather than using her words to work through their differences seems like a disservice to her character (who's previously been _more_ than capable of verbally sparring with - and occasionally besting - Jack). I think it's very natural that they would have strong emotions and frustrations in the moment and that they would act out of those things, but I think it would have shown their characters to greater effect (and would have actually been more romantic) if they'd talked through their feelings, heard each other out, come to a resolution together, and then kissed as a spontaneous act of affection rather than as a questionable conflict-resolution tactic. Of course, I know that's not how arguments always go, so the canon scene isn't really that out of left field...but since this is fanfiction, I did take the liberty of changing things up for this story. :) Thank you for reading it, and please let me know what you thought (feel free to disagree with my take if you'd like!).


	41. Head to Head

**Disclaimer: **This is a non-commercial work of fanfiction. Anything recognizable from _Newsies_ belongs to Disney and not to me.

* * *

Chapter 41: Head to Head

Whoever had come up with the notion that Sundays were for lying around all day certainly had never been a newsie, Race reflected. Of course, being on strike was probably the closest a newsie would ever get to that kind of leisure - provided you weren't the newsie in charge, of course.

Taking a puff from his cigar, Race leaned against the wall of the lodging house, taking advantage of a rare moment alone to reflect before Davey arrived. He'd kept his frustrations under control on the walk home the night before (his objective hadn't actually been to debrief so much as to make sure that Davey didn't run himself ragged planning for the next thing when the rally had only just concluded), but now that each of them had gotten a few hours of rest, it was time to start strategizing again. The newsies had been sent out of the lodging house and had been told to keep out of trouble (a directive that was probably being ignored at this very moment, but as long as no one came back looking too bruised up, Race didn't care what they decided to do to amuse themselves). They'd worked hard the night before at the rally and deserved some time to blow off steam.

He wished that he could be out there with them.

Sighing, Race snuffed out his cigar as he caught sight of Davey coming down the street.

"How'd you sleep, Race?" the other newsie asked as he arrived. Race had off-handedly mentioned his insomnia once, and he was surprised that Davey had remembered it with all of the other details he'd been having to keep straight in his mind.

"Well enough," he shrugged. "You?"

"Out like a light," Davey grinned. "And happy to report that, per your request, I've done very little thinking, at least by my normal standards."

Race pushed himself off of the wall where he'd been leaning. "Well, that's a start," he acknowledged, leading the way back towards the lodging house. "Guess it'd be askin' too much for you to shut down that big brain of yours completely." They made their way up the stairs to the bunk room and Race opened the door, motioning for Davey to precede him towards the table where they usually met.

"I got a couple of ideas I wanna run by you," he began as they made their way down the narrow aisle between the rows of bunk beds. "I was thinkin' that it might be better if we - " he stopped short, almost running into Davey as the taller boy abruptly came to a halt.

"What's the deal, Dave?" Race grumbled, peeking over the other newsie's shoulder to see what had caused the sudden standstill.

Jack Kelly rose from where he'd been sitting at the table.

"Heya fellas," he said hesitantly. "You, uh...mind if I join you?"

Race pushed his way past Davey, the anger he'd kept in check for the past week and a half boiling over. "What are you doin' here?" he demanded hotly. "Last I heard you didn't wanna have anything to do with the strike!"

Jack's expression darkened slightly. "Racer, you have to let me explain - "

"You ain't the boss of me anymore, Kelly," Race snapped, too incensed to listen. "I don't haf'ta let'cha do anything - you gave up that right when you turned on us!"

"Oh, so you's just gonna run your mouth like a little kid, then?" Jack scoffed, his temper flaring up as well. "Throwin' a fit instead of listenin' to reason?"

Race snarled and lunged forward, but Davey quickly grabbed his arm. "Race, _stop_!" he insisted. "This isn't the way to solve things!"

"Let him go, Dave," Jack commanded. He locked eyes with Race. "You want to take a swing at me, Racer?" he challenged. "Huh?" He held his arms out to his sides. "Go ahead."

Race closed the distance with furious speed, cocking his hand back into fist. But at the last second, he checked his swing, slamming both of his palms down onto the table beside Jack instead, and swearing loudly as he did so.

For a moment, nobody moved. Race remained hunched over, his hands on the table and his breathing ragged. Out of the corner of his eye, he saw Jack slowly lower his arms.

"Racer…" he began.

"You think I give a _damn _what you have to say, Jacky?" Race interrupted through clenched teeth. "After that stunt you pulled at the rally? After you _left us_ to run the strike by ourselves?"

"Racer - "

"You _knew_ we was gonna be hurtin' with all the boys gettin' roughed up in the brawl with the bulls! You _knew _Crutchie was in The Refuge and couldn't help us! You _knew_ I don't know the first thing about leadin' the newsies through this kinda thing, Jack, and _you sat it out_ while I - "

"You had _Davey_!" Jack interrupted.

"And he's the only reason this whole thing ain't goin' up in flames right now!" Race retorted, straightening up to look Jack in the eye. "I ain't sayin' I didn't have good enough help. I'm sayin' I thought I could _trust_ you! I thought you was the kind who would _be there_, Jack! Ain't that what you always told us - that we's a family, and that family looks out for each other?" He made a sound of disgust, shaking his head. "Guess those was all just empty words, huh?"

"Racer - " Jack began for a third time.

"Save it, Kelly," Race muttered bitterly as he turned and left the bunk room.

He'd had enough.

* * *

Silence descended in the wake of Race's outraged departure, and Jack found himself trying to calm his own burning anger.

That hadn't gone so well.

He shot a look at Davey, who was still standing in almost the exact same spot where he'd stopped when he'd first caught sight of Jack. Apprehension and bewilderment were written all over his face, and for once, he said nothing, seemingly unwilling or unable to speak. Between the two of them, they'd never wanted for words before...but now the quiet hung between them, and Jack found the impasse unsettling.

"Ya wanna have at me too, Davey?" he asked finally, unable to let the silence stand any longer.

For a while, Davey didn't respond, and Jack was almost going to resort to goading him into a reply, when the other boy suddenly spoke.

"No," he answered. "Not like that." He gave Jack a level look. "But I do want to know why you did it." His tone and expression were almost unreadable now, the confusion that had formerly claimed his features suddenly gone, and Jack found himself wondering what Davey _really_ thought about the whole situation, and if he'd ever be able to find out, now that the other boy had put up a wall of blank detachment.

Well, at least he'd given Jack a fighting chance to explain himself.

"Pulitzer forced my hand, Dave," he said, deciding he might as well be straightforward. He knew Davey would let him give his full explanation without interrupting, but he also sensed that he needed to give the unembellished truth if he wanted to have any hope of regaining the other newsie's trust. He knew from experience that Race would (probably) come around eventually, but he hadn't known Davey long enough to determine if their friendship was on the brink of being irreparably damaged, and he didn't want to risk it. Honesty, in this case, would be the wisest approach.

"When I went to see him, to invite him to the rally, he had the Delanceys and Snyder there waitin' for me," Jack continued. "He told me he was gonna have me hauled off to The Refuge if I didn't speak against the strike, and that he'd go after you and Racer, too. I dunno for sure how he found out, but somehow he knew exactly where the rally was gonna be held, and he knew you and Race was the ones in charge." He glanced at Davey's face and saw the same inscrutable expression there, but if he had to guess what was going on in the other newsie's head, it probably would have sounded something like "I told you so." Davey _had_ tried to warn him, and Jack should have listened. But that was water under the bridge now.

"I know you ain't ever seen The Refuge for yourself, Davey," Jack said slowly, walking over to the table and retrieving the artist's roll that housed his drawings, "but this is just a glimpse of it." He pulled out a few of his sketches and handed them to Davey, who took them silently.

For a moment it was quiet as the dark-haired boy took in the drawings and Jack watched his face. The studied neutrality that had been in Davey's expression before quickly changed from shocked to horrified in an instant, and then settled into a deeply troubled look.

"Jack…" he trailed off. "I…"

"This ain't even the half of it," Jack muttered, holding out his hands for the drawings and rolling them back up.

"You've been locked up there?" Davey asked, clearly distressed at the thought. "In those kinds of conditions?"

Jack nodded. "Me, Racer, several of the other fellas, too." He looked Davey in the eye. "Could you imagine yourself in there, Dave? You and your brother? Along with the rest of the boys?"

Davey didn't say anything in response, but the look on his face was answer enough.

"That's why I did it," Jack said soberly. "I couldn't stand the thought of that happenin' to any one of you. Pulitzer got to my head, made me think it was hopeless, that we didn't have any chance of winnin.' I didn't see any other way out. I thought if I couldn't save the strike, I could at least keep you all safe."

"What about the money?" Davey asked quietly. The question was weighted, but somehow free of accusation.

Jack shook his head. "Part of Pulitzer's deal. He said if I spoke against the strike, he'd give me enough cash to buy a train ticket outta here. Probably figured I'd be makin' a few enemies and would wanna skip town, and the old snake was right about that. I felt so terrible I almost got on a train first thing I could after leavin' the rally."

"So you _didn't_ do it for the money." It was a statement, not a question, and the significance of that was not lost on Jack.

"Nah, I didn't," he said, affirming the declaration. "There ain't enough money in _The World_ to get me to sell out on my boys."

Davey acknowledged the joke with the faintest hint of a smile, but he still looked a little uneasy. "Why didn't you leave?" he asked. "I mean, if you had the money, and you wanted to go…"

Jack shrugged. "Guess something changed my mind."

"Or _someone_, maybe?" Davey suggested quickly.

Jack looked at him in surprise, and saw that the smile that had been just barely present a moment ago had grown significantly.

"What are you tryin' to say?"

"Nothing." Davey slid his hands into his pockets with a shrug. "Just glad you decided to stick around." There was definitely a grin on his face now.

"Shaddup," Jack growled, annoyed at the jab but inwardly pleased that Davey seemed to have forgiven him. He'd been worried that he wouldn't possess the verbal acuity necessary to convince the other boy of his sincerity, but it seemed that whatever he'd said had been enough to satisfy Davey, at least for now.

One down, one to go.

"So, speaking of Katherine - " Davey began.

"Oh, we's speakin' of Katherine now?" Jack interrupted, unwilling to be baited again.

Davey gave him an unamused look. "_Speaking_ of Katherine," he repeated, "has she talked to you recently? About anything important?"

"Funny you should mention it," Jack said. He couldn't have scripted a better segue himself. "I actually have somethin' surprisin' to tell you about her. She...well, she ain't exactly the person we thought she was."

Davey opened his mouth to say something, but Jack quickly cut him off. "It's all right though, Dave," he said assuringly. "She's still on our side. It's just that she's got connections to Pulitzer that we didn't know about."

"She's his daughter," Davey stated.

"Yeah, can you believe - " Jack stopped short. "Wait...you...you _knew?_" he sputtered.

Davey nodded. "It's a long story, but I found out accidentally - before the rally."

"And you didn't _tell_ me?"

"Jack, I couldn't even _find_ you until you showed up and gave your speech that night," Davey reminded him. "And it wasn't my secret to tell. I encouraged Katherine to talk to you herself, and she told me that she would."

Jack grunted in reply, seeing the logic in the other newsie's answer but still a little put out. "Do any of the other boys know?" he asked.

Davey shook his head. "Not that I know of. I haven't said anything to them."

"Well, her identity's only half of it," Jack said, scratching his head as he pondered his next move. A part of him wanted to take the easy way out, to share the rest of the plan with Davey and then leave it to the other boy to break the news to Race and the rest of the lodging house. But that was the coward's way out. And it would only temporarily delay the inevitable confrontation that was coming. Jack knew he needed to be the one to make it right with his aggrieved second-in-command and with the rest of the newsies. Davey had been playing go-between long enough.

"You have any idea where Racer might've gone?" Jack asked wearily. "Katherine and I came up with a few ideas, but I'd rather fill both of you fellas in at the same time."

"I'll go look for him," Davey offered. "We were supposed to meet to talk about some things, so he probably hasn't gone far." He started towards the stairs and was halfway out of the room before Jack called out to him.

"Hey, just so we's clear…"

Davey turned back, glancing at him in surprise.

"...no hard feelings?" Jack finished, giving the other boy an apologetic look.

Davey hesitated for a moment, then shook his head. "No hard feelings, Jack. I think you've already been through enough. Even if I wish things had gone differently…" he trailed off, seeming to think the better of what he'd been about to say. "Well, I know you did the best you could," he said, brushing the earlier thought aside. "We all did."

"Yeah," Jack agreed, a little uncomfortable with the words that had been left unspoken, but reluctant to contradict Davey when he was clearly trying so hard to let bygones be bygones.

"Well, just wanted to make sure," he said, giving the other boy a hesitant half-grin. "You did tell me on the walk back from Brooklyn that you was gonna find a way to make me regret it if I left you to run the strike by yourself."

"Technically, you left me with Race, so I can't make good on that threat," Davey answered. "But I think you'll have your work cut out for you when it comes to making peace with him, regardless of any potential retribution from me." He gave Jack a mirthless smile. "I'll go see if I can find him."

Then he turned and left the room, leaving Jack to wait and stew alone. The conversation with Davey had gone much easier than he'd expected, but he had no doubt that the other boy was right - the real work was still to come.

* * *

**A/N:** If it could have been possible to add one more thing to _Newsies, _I would have really loved to see a reconciliation scene between Jack and Davey after "Something to Believe In" and before "Once and For All." I understand why it wasn't included, but it does seem to leave a little bit of a narrative gap when Davey goes from the utterly betrayed look he gives Jack at the rally to "It's good to have you back again" with no real explanation for how he got there. Maybe canon!Davey is just really forgiving. It's possible. :)

I think if I had written this scene as a one-shot that focused on Jack and Davey's friendship, it would have been a lot more tense and emotional on Davey's side (and that's originally how I expected it to go), but this story has a slightly different relational dynamic in that Race's role in the strike is more prominent than it was in the musical, so that certainly affected how things played out - Davey is trying to play peacemaker between Jack and Race rather than simply speaking from his own feelings, so he's a lot more restrained than he would be if he _wasn't_ in that position.

I'd be eager to hear what you thought of this "missing scene" and/or any other reflection this chapter might have raised if you'd be willing to share!


	42. A Tentative Truce

**Disclaimer: **This is a non-commercial work of fanfiction. Anything recognizable from _Newsies_ belongs to Disney and not to me.

* * *

Chapter 42: A Tentative Truce

Davey found Race in the second place he thought to look - out back behind the lodging house. The gambler was hunkered down, leaning against the wall with his cigar in his mouth and a sullen look on his face, scowling darkly at nothing in particular.

Davey walked over slowly, then crouched down next to the other boy without saying a word. They sat in silence for a moment before the latter finally spoke.

"Did Jacky-boy send you to do his dirty work and convince me that he ain't the low-down rotten scumbag I think he is?" he asked bitterly, snuffing out his cigar.

"He didn't send me," Davey answered. "I volunteered to come."

Race scoffed. "Ain't you tired of playin' middle-man, Dave?" he demanded, giving Davey a sharp look. "You ain't a liar, so tell it to me straight - you really gonna let him get away with what he did? You gonna sit here and tell me that I oughta go back and make it pax with him 'cause he's got some kinda good excuse for leavin' us when we needed him most and then stabbin' us in the back on top of it?"

"Whether or not Jack's excuse is a good one is up for you to decide, Race," Davey answered, trying to keep his tone neutral. "But I _am_ going to ask you to go back and at least listen to his explanation. You don't have to accept it if you don't want to."

The answer seemed to surprise Race, and he said nothing for a moment, clearly still opposed to the thought of confronting Jack again.

Davey held back a sigh. He completely understood Race's reaction - in fact, there was a part of him that probably would have come down a little harder on Jack if the gambler hadn't already voiced the frustrations that both of them had been feeling in the newsie leader's absence. But after hearing Jack's explanation, the situation wasn't so simple. Jack's decisions may have caused Race and the newsies undue grief, but he _had_ acted with their best interest at heart, and now he was clearly trying to make amends. It really was imperative that he and Race reach an understanding of some sort, and though Davey wasn't naive enough to think that a simple conversation would solve everything, he knew they had to start somewhere if any kind of future reconciliation was to be hoped for and the strike was to proceed.

A thought that had been hovering in the back of his mind suddenly came to his attention. He hadn't planned on bringing it up any time soon, and in the context of this current discussion, it would be a risky move...but maybe it would be an angle that would get Race to agree to talk with Jack. Davey didn't really want to arouse more of the gambler's ire, and he especially didn't want that ire to be directed at _him_...but something had to be done, so he would need to push his hesitation aside and take the chance.

"Race…" Davey began slowly, "now that Jack's returned...there's really no reason for three people to be leading the newsies. Especially not once we get Crutchie back."

The other boy glanced at him sharply. "What are you tryin' to say, Dave?" he asked, his eyes narrowing.

Davey forced himself to meet the accusing look without flinching. "I'm saying that you and Jack need to figure out a way to make things work," he said, more calmly than he felt, "because once the strike's over, I'm going back to being a regular newsie. I don't know how to lead the boys the way you and Jack and Crutchie do, and I don't want to make things more confusing for everyone, so once this is over, I'm stepping back, which means that you and Jack will need to be able to at least _talk_ to each other, even if you don't agree on how things should be done."

"So you's gonna bail on me too," Race muttered bitterly.

That was the exact sentiment Davey had been afraid of eliciting.

"I'm not bailing on anyone," he answered, willing himself to be patient. "I'll still be around. I'll just be taking the orders instead of giving them. This was going to happen eventually," he added, after Race said nothing in response. "I was never supposed to be leading the newsies in the first place. I barely knew more about starting a strike than the rest of you, and I know _nothing_ about hawking headlines. Any expertise I have to offer is going to be irrelevant once the strike ends."

The logic of his statements seemed to have no effect on Race.

_Find a new tactic,_ Davey told himself. _This isn't working._

He rubbed the back of his neck, trying to massage the tension away. What was really upsetting Race so much? He'd held his anger in check all this time before Jack showed up, and Davey knew that the other boy was capable of moving past his emotions when the situation required it. He'd also seen enough over the past week and a half to know that, while Race resented the unasked-for mantle of leadership that had been thrust upon him, he cared a great deal about the newsies, and had tried his hardest to lead them in the best way that he knew how. Surely he could see that reconciling with Jack was something that had to happen - for the rest of the boys, if nothing else?

But the logic of the situation wasn't really the sticking point here, was it? There was something else that Race was hung up on, and as Davey mentally revisited the conversation that had taken place earlier with Jack, he slowly began to get an inkling of what it might be.

_You sat it out!_

_I thought I could trust you! I thought you would _be _there! _

_You said a family looks out for each other...guess those was all just empty words._

It was loyalty, Davey thought. That was the big question here. Race didn't have the advantage of knowing what Davey did now - that Jack had acted out of his own conviction that he was protecting the newsies by denouncing the strike. That (contrary to what it had looked like with the money changing hands) Jack had put the newsies before himself. That even Jack's earlier failure to rejoin the strike had been caused not by a _lack_ of care, but by caring _too_ much, and by being overcome by his perceived failure to keep the newsies safe.

Race needed to know that Jack's loyalty hadn't wavered even though his actions seemed to say otherwise. But Davey couldn't be the one to convince him of that. Race needed to hear it from Jack himself.

_Just get him back to the lodging house. That's all you need to do. _

"Race," Davey acknowledged, "you have more right than any of us to be angry at Jack, and I don't blame you for not wanting to talk to him right now. The last week and a half has been the hardest on you, and you've constantly had to make sacrifices for the rest of the boys. I know it's not fair of me to ask you to do one more thing on top of all that you've already done…"

He put his hand on Race's shoulder. "...but I'm going to ask you to do it anyway." He gave the other boy an imploring look. "If you won't do it for Jack, then do it for me. And if you won't do it for me, then do it for the rest of the newsies. We need you and Jack to be on speaking terms if this strike is going to survive."

Race shook off Davey's hand, looking irritated, but he didn't refuse outright. "Sure am ready for this whole striking business to be over with," he muttered.

"Yeah." Davey let out the sigh he'd been holding in. "Me too."

They sat in silence for another moment. Then Race suddenly got to his feet.

"Guess goin' back and talkin' to Jacky is the only way I'll getcha off my back," he grunted. "You sure know how to hound a fella, Davey."

"You haven't seen me at my worst," Davey replied, relieved at the other newsie's sudden capitulation. "I can be twice as overbearing as that when I want to be. Ask Les." He, too, got to his feet.

"If this is you at half-strength, I don't think I'd wanna see you when you's really tryin' to get a point across," the other newsie grumbled.

"I'm just returning the favor, Race," Davey responded lightly. "You did your fair share of hounding me last night at Irving Hall."

"What are you talkin' about?" the gambler gave him a quizzical look

"The speech, remember?" Davey prodded. "I didn't think I had it in me to convince the newsies to join the strike, but you told me that I did...and you were right. This is kind of the same thing. You might not think you have it in you to listen to Jack right now...but I think you have it in you to overlook his offenses long enough to just give him a chance to explain himself." He gave the other newsie a small smile.

Race snorted, then abruptly pushed past him, heading for the front of the lodging house. "All right, Dave, all right," he muttered. "Enough already!" The words were curt, but Race's tone had softened perceptibly, and Davey smiled a little to himself as he followed the other newsie back into the lodging house and up the stairs.

He'd done his part. It was up to Jack, now.

* * *

The sound of footsteps on the stairway reached Jack's ears, and he straightened up as Race entered the bunk room followed by an almost smug-looking Davey. Jack had to admit that he was surprised that the older Jacobs brother had been able to locate Race at all, much less convince him to come back in such a short amount of time, but he was thankful for Davey's quick work. He didn't know how much longer he could have stood waiting alone in the bunk room.

He and Race had butted heads occasionally in the past, and their verbal disagreements generally didn't end well. In previous confrontations, however, the gambler had always backed down, because Jack was the undisputed leader of the lodging house, and they both knew it. Race would go off for an hour or two (or in some cases, for the night), blow off steam, and then return, and the two of them would proceed as though nothing had happened, joking and laughing and ribbing each other like the brothers that they were.

But Jack had never seen the other boy as angry as he'd been when he stormed out of the bunk room.

Race walked over to where Jack was standing and pointedly took a seat at the table. "We gonna discuss this civilly, Jack?" he asked stiffly. "Or you wanna throw fists just to clear the air first?"

Jack saw Davey open his mouth to protest and then quickly shut it. If the situation hadn't been so tense, the sight would have been a bit comical.

"Guess we oughta try the civil way first," Jack allowed, taking a seat opposite Race and leaving the chair in the middle open for Davey, who slid into it looking slightly disconcerted. "You have anything else you wanna say to me, Racer, before I tell you my side of the story?"

"I'll hear you out," Race answered shortly, checking his impulse to say more with apparent effort.

Jack nodded. "All right." He paused for a moment, gathering his thoughts. He knew that he had to approach Race differently than he'd approached Davey. The gambler was already riled up, for one thing, and Jack knew from experience that he also wouldn't be as easily persuaded by logic as Davey had been.

Where should he even start?

Suddenly, the memory of the dream he'd had in Pulitzer's basement came back to him - that feeling of hopeless despair upon seeing Race back in The Refuge, trapped in the place he'd sworn he would fight tooth and nail to stay out of. Most of the details of the dream had faded from Jack's mind, but the one image that had remained, clear and sharp and haunting, was that of Race, injured and unconscious, lying on the dirty ground in the Reflection Room.

Jack felt his throat constrict at the memory.

"Racer…" he began hoarsely, "do you remember that night when you made that vow that you'd never go back to The Refuge?"

Race blanched. He clearly hadn't been expecting that. Jack watched as the gambler, usually so in control of his reactions, struggled to regain his composure. It only took a moment, but that moment was enough to make it clear that The Refuge was still a touchy subject, and that the old wounds hadn't completely healed.

"I remember it," Jack said quietly, not wanting to cause Race further pain, but knowing that he would need to risk making things worse before they could get better. "I remember like it was yesterday."

"Where are you goin' with this, Jacky?" Race broke in, his voice shaking a little.

Jack paused, momentarily unable to continue. He hadn't expected Race's defenses to crack so quickly, and the sudden vulnerability in the other boy's voice made his throat tighten again. He swallowed, forcing himself to speak. "I'm tryin' to tell you that you wasn't the only one who made a vow that night," he said hoarsely. "When I saw how much you was hurtin', and how dark it was for you after you got out, I made a promise that I'd never let anything happen that would make you haf'ta go back there. I didn't tell you - but I vowed that night with you that you'd never haf'ta go back The Refuge - that they'd haf'ta get me first before I'd let them take you again."

Jack felt his emotions welling up, and he swiped a hand across his eyes. "Pulitzer, he - he was threatenin' to arrest you and Davey, to lock you up in The Refuge if I didn't shut down the strike myself," he continued, his own voice shaking now. "I couldn't let that happen, Racer! I couldn't stand the thought of seein' you in there again!" Tears threatened again, and he looked away for a moment, not wanting to break down in front of the other two at the table.

"So that's why I did it," he continued. "I showed up at the rally, and said what Pulitzer wanted me to say. I thought it was the only way I could keep you fellas safe." He looked Race in the eye. "The money was just part of the offer," he said, hoping the other newsie could hear the sincerity in his voice, "but it wasn't what made me do it." He held Race's gaze intently, until the gambler pointedly looked away.

"I know I let you down, Racer," Jack muttered. "I shouldn't have run on you and the boys after Crutchie got arrested. I still ain't really sure why I did it...I just felt like I couldn't face you fellas after what happened." He sighed. "But I'm tryin' to make it right. And Katherine and I came up with a plan that I think is gonna take us to the finish line, if…" he swallowed his pride, "if you fellas is willin' to hear me out."

It was completely silent for a moment. Race was still staring off into the middle space, his expression unusually distant, as though he was having trouble processing what Jack had said. Davey's eyes were fixed on the table in front of him, his shoulders tense and his hands still, but his mind probably going a mile a minute.

Jack forced himself to wait. It was a humbling position to be in - he'd never had to answer for his actions before, let alone ask for permission to speak from his subordinates, but he knew that he owed Race and Davey the choice of whether they wanted to listen to him or not. They were the leaders of the strike now - he'd skipped out on them too long to come back demanding an equal place at the table.

After several agonizing minutes, Davey finally moved, shifting a little in his seat, his gaze settling on the boy at his left. "Race…?" he asked quietly.

The single word seemed to draw the gambler out of his pensiveness. Race quickly sat up, leaning forward and resting his hands on the table, his expression once again sharp and alert. He exchanged a brief look with Davey; no words were spoken, but they must have come to an agreement somehow, because when Race finally broke the silence, he spoke for both of them.

"We'll hear your idea."

It was a cautious statement, far from the open acceptance Jack had been hoping for, but it wasn't an outright rejection either, so he could work with it. Maybe their friendship would take some time to mend, but if they were on speaking terms, at least they could proceed with the plans for the strike.

Quickly, Jack filled in Race on the subject of Katherine's identity. If the gambler was surprised, he hid it well, seemingly once again in control of his emotions, and the only remark he bothered to make was a sarcastic observation that Pulitzer must be even more of a rat than they'd thought if his own daughter was scheming to take him down. Jack took the snide remark as a good sign.

He then laid out the plan he and Katherine had created for Race and Davey's evaluation. The former had no remarks or questions at all, but the latter had far too many for Jack's liking (he didn't think coming up with an organized plan of retreat in case they were discovered was really necessary, but had to grudgingly admit that some of the other points Davey raised, such as whether or not they should consider involving Spot and the other newsie leaders, were worth discussing. They'd had to tangent there for a bit, Jack expressing his surprise that Spot and the others had already agreed to support the strike, and Race coming out of his slight taciturnity to tell him that, contrary to Jack's best efforts to ruin the rally, the night had been saved after all by another one of Davey's motivational speeches. Davey, clearly uncomfortable taking credit for the success, had quickly redirected them back to the plan in front of them). After talking through things until they'd adequately put to rest Davey's long list of logistical conundrums, they had a slightly more complicated but much more robust plan for how they were going to approach printing and distributing the _Newsies Banner_.

"So, when should we break the news to the fellas?" Jack asked, sitting back in his chair. "You said this is their day off, right?"

"Today and tomorrow," Davey answered. "We needed some time to recover after the rally, and we also wanted to give the other newsies a chance to make the impact of the strike felt in their neighborhoods so that all of New York is feeling the pinch before we make our final stand."

Jack nodded. "All right - so maybe we call a lodging house meetin' and talk to 'em all tomorrow?"

"That makes the most sense," Davey agreed, "and it will give us time to invite Spot and some of his boys if they'd want to attend." They'd decided to involve only the Brooklyn leader in the covert printing of the _Newsies Banner _\- Spot, after all, had been the first to pledge his support, and he'd probably want to be a part of the action - but they would invite all of the city's newsies to join them in front of _The World_ after the papers had been distributed. Having another day to get the word out would mean less strain on the Manhattan newsies who would have to act as couriers.

"Sound good, Racer?" Jack asked. The gambler grunted his assent. "All right, we's in agreement, then," Jack said, pushing back his chair. "I'll go update Katherine on the plan and see if she can make it for our meetin' tomorrow with the boys. It'll probably be good for her to be there so she can help explain everything - though it's probably gonna get a little crazy with her and all of us bein' there and tryin' to run things."

"Actually…" Davey interjected. He let the word hang, shooting a slightly uneasy glance at Race before looking at Jack, who was awkwardly poised halfway in and halfway out of his chair.

"You have somethin' to say, Dave?" he asked, secretly hoping that the other newsie wasn't going to raise yet another administrative concern.

"Yeah, I - " Davey cleared his throat. "I do." He sounded unsure of himself, as though he was about to say something that he hadn't had time to adequately think through.

Jack slowly sat down in his chair again.

"I was actually thinking...since you brought it up, Jack, about it being a little crazy with the three of us trying to run things," Davey continued, rambling a little, "that it would maybe be better if I didn't...well, if I didn't come to the meeting tomorrow. It would mean one less leader in the lodging house," he said quickly, before either Jack or Race could respond, "and it makes more sense for the two of you to be there, and for me to take a step back, because I'm not going to still be leading the newsies after the strike is over."

The statement, so simple and sensible, was more sobering than Jack would have expected.

"Besides, I wouldn't mind having a day off to go back to school," Davey continued, the lightheartedness in his voice sounding forced. "I've gotten a little behind on my studies, being so busy with the strike and everything, and it would be nice to be able to get back into the classroom, even if it's just for a day." He gave them an unconvincing smile.

Jack and Race exchanged a wry look, and for the first time since the brawl at the distribution center, Jack felt a tiny spark of camaraderie begin to grow between them. Davey hadn't fooled anyone - they knew he was trying to take himself out of the picture so that they'd be forced to work together - but his awkward attempts to provide a plausible explanation for his absence without resorting to lying were amusing in their predictability. (Oddly enough, though, his strategy seemed to be working. Jack could already sense the tension beginning to thaw).

"If you's wantin' to take tomorrow for school, Dave, that's fine with me," he said, deciding not to put up a protest. "Pretty sure you deserve some time off as much as the rest of us." He looked at Race, who nodded his agreement.

"Am-scray, punk," the gambler muttered, shooing Davey towards the door. "You get a pass this time, but I'm expectin' you back bright and early on Tuesday - you ain't gettin' rid of us that easily."

Davey grinned, clearly relieved that Jack and Race were in agreement on something. "All right, that sounds good," he said, rising from his seat. "I'll get going now so I won't be underfoot, but I'll see you both on Tuesday morning." He spat in his hand and shook with both of them, looking (Jack noticed) not the slightest bit perturbed by the ritual he'd decried as disgusting only a few weeks ago, then took his leave, an almost-cheerful spring in his step as he headed down the stairs, leaving the two of them alone in the bunk room.

"That bummer wouldn't last a minute at a card table," Race remarked dryly. "Couldn't bluff to save his life, not with that kinda face."

Jack chuckled. "Yeah, I guess Davey's good at a lot of things, but foolin' people ain't one of 'em." He gave Race a half-smile. "So...you think we's gonna be able to get through that meetin' tomorrow without killin' each other?"

The gambler rolled his eyes. "Let's go, Jacky," he said, pushing back his chair. "We got a union to run."


	43. Careless Words

**Disclaimer: **This is a non-commercial work of fanfiction. Anything recognizable from _Newsies_ belongs to Disney and not to me.

* * *

Chapter 43: Careless Words

It felt strange to be getting ready for school in the morning instead of preparing to head to the lodging house.

Davey frowned at his reflection in the washroom mirror. He'd knotted his necktie unevenly.

Shaking his head, he undid the entire thing and started over again, trying not to think too hard about it. He really should have been able to accomplish the action in his sleep - he'd been doing it for years; only a little over a week and a half of forgoing the habit shouldn't have left his fingers _this_ clumsy.

Maybe it was nerves.

He wasn't sure what he had to be nervous about. Not long ago he'd been mourning the fact that he'd had to drop out of school to help feed his family. He'd actually walked past the school grounds on his first day as a newsie, wishing that he could just drop the heavy bag of papers right there at the gate and walk inside the building to where his classmates were learning and reading and thinking, all of the things he loved to do, things that certainly appealed to his interests and suited his disposition better than the unlikely profession in which he'd found himself. He'd only allowed himself to stand at the gate for a moment before forcing himself to move on, but the melancholy wistfulness had stayed with him for the entire day. He'd simply wanted to be a schoolboy again, not a newsie.

But that had all been before the strike began.

Now, suddenly, it didn't feel right to be shining his shoes and knotting his tie and buttoning his vest. It didn't feel right to be setting his books and his lunch pail by the door instead of his newsboy cap and bag. And it felt oddly unsettling to think about being among near-strangers again when he'd come to look forward to the brotherly camaraderie he'd shared with the newsies (though he still felt like an outsider at times, even with them).

He'd made the decision to absent himself from the lodging house meeting that day in an attempt to get Jack and Race to work through their differences, and since he'd cited a desire to return to the classroom as the reason for his truancy, he figured he'd probably better go. He'd assumed that the feeling of enthusiasm for school that he'd felt previous to the strike would instantaneously return...but instead he found himself more anxious than excited, wondering if maybe this hadn't been such a good idea after all.

Well, no one was forcing him to go back to school. He'd made the decision, it was for the good of the newsies, and that was the long and short of it. Perhaps he'd settle in once he got there.

Exiting the washroom after he'd determined he looked presentable enough (though the stubborn tie refused to cooperate no matter how many attempts he made to fix it), Davey returned to his family's apartment. Les was already up and dressed, pulling on his shoes by the door and only half-listening to their mother as she reminded him to pay attention in class and to remember to bring home his school book and not leave it sitting in the schoolyard as he had the day before.

"Ready, Les?" Davey asked as he picked up his books and their shared lunch pail. The younger boy nodded in resignation, and the Jacobs brothers set off in the direction of the schoolhouse.

* * *

Sadie had just finished putting her handbag and books away in her desk when Margaret slid into the seat beside her.

"Good morning, Megs!" Sadie said cheerfully. "I'm sorry we couldn't walk with you today. Abby had to get here early to go over one of her assignments with Mr. Crowell."

The other girl completely ignored her apology. "Did you see who's back in school?" she whispered eagerly. Sadie responded with a confused look, and Margaret inclined her head subtly towards the back of the schoolroom. Turning to look over her shoulder, Sadie was surprised to see her neighbors standing near the door, Les chatting animatedly with one of the girls from his class, and Davey looking a little overwhelmed by the chaos swirling around him as students trickled into the room, finding their seats and loudly greeting one another.

"What's he doing here?" she murmured. Had the rally failed and the strike been called off? She fervently hoped for his sake that this wasn't the case. But no, she reminded herself quickly, it had to be something else. If the strike had failed, Davey would have been out selling newspapers, not here at school.

"Well, whatever his reason, he looks lost," Margaret observed. She nudged Sadie with her foot. "What are you waiting for?" she teased. "Go and retrieve your stray newsboy."

"'Stray' is certainly not the word I'd use, and Davey is _not_ my responsibility," Sadie answered primly, turning up her nose at her friend. Margaret really was insufferable sometimes, and Sadie didn't understand why she insisted on fabricating something out of her friendship with Davey that wasn't there. The teasing was probably well-meant, but Margaret should know better by now, and Sadie was determined to prove that her friend's insinuations were completely unfounded.

So she checked her initial reaction (which _would_ have been to immediately approach Davey and pepper him with friendly questions) and instead busied herself with cleaning her slate for class. A part of her felt that it was a little unfair to give him the cold shoulder just to prove a point (and he _had_ looked lost, so she really ought to do something to ease his re-entry into their class), but she really wasn't in the mood for teasing this morning, and she was sure that he was more than capable of figuring things out for himself.

Sure enough, when she stole a glance over her shoulder (Margaret's attention having been momentarily drawn elsewhere), she saw that he'd taken his seat in the row behind them and had begun taking out his school supplies, exchanging a few polite hellos with their classmates and looking a little more comfortable now that he had a place to belong and something to do. She caught his eye, giving him a little wave, and he smiled cautiously in return but didn't seem inclined to strike up a conversation, so she let him be.

The morning passed by quickly enough, Sadie finding herself surprised that she must have developed a stamina for listening to the lectures of their schoolmaster, for she paid attention throughout the entire lesson even though she was well aware that she didn't need to attend to the subject so closely since no tutoring lesson would be required of her on this particular day.

When lunchtime came, she wondered if Davey would default to his previous habit of solitary dining with his book, or if he would elect to join her friends at the park for their usual picnic. She peeked in his direction and saw that he did indeed have a book close at hand, probably waiting to be read. Les had walked over to get his portion of food from the brothers' shared lunch pail, the contents of which Davey had set on his desk so that the younger boy could claim his allotment.

_Was that really all they ate?_ Sadie wondered, watching as Les scooped up his serving - a small cornbread muffin, a boiled egg, and a chunk of a potato. Davey's portion really wasn't much bigger. She forgot sometimes that money was tight for the Jacobs family, but moments like these reminded her of that fact with sobering clarity.

Her own lunch seemed rather extravagant by contrast.

"Are you coming?" Margaret asked, her teasing voice breaking into Sadie's thoughts. "Or are you a bit preoccupied right now?"

Sadie stood up, looping her arm through the handle of her lunch pail without a word.

"Will you be joining us for lunch today at the park, David?" Margaret asked loudly. "We haven't seen you for a while, and I know Sadie's _dying_ to ask you some questions."

"Megs!" Sadie gave her friend a rebuking look. "I wasn't going to force Davey to come to the park with us if he'd really rather read."

"I didn't say anything about forcing him!" the other girl protested innocently. "I only said that you had some things you wanted to ask."

"_Margaret_ \- "

"That's all right," Davey broke in hastily. "I'll come."

"Excellent," Margaret beamed, mincing out of the room and leaving Sadie to wait for their classmate to set aside his book and gather his lunch pail before joining her.

"You did have something to ask?" he said quietly as they made their way out of the school room. "I couldn't tell if she was joking or not."

"I _am_ curious to know how the rally went and why you're back at school," Sadie replied, "but those questions really could have waited for later. I didn't mean to cut into your reading time."

"That can wait for later, too," he assured her.

They walked out of the schoolhouse and joined Margaret, then the three of them set off in the direction of the park.

"So, how _did_ the rally go?" Sadie prompted, when Davey hadn't said anything for several moments. "Were you able to convince the rest of the newsboys to join the strike?"

He nodded. "I almost couldn't believe it myself, but yes - they're on board now." There was an uncharacteristic note of satisfaction in his voice.

"Davey, that's great news!" she exclaimed. "All of your hard work paid off."

"Thank you," he replied, looking surprised but pleased at her enthusiasm.

"I take it Jack must have come through in time, then, if he was able to deliver his speech," Sadie remarked, remembering how concerned Davey had been about it beforehand. "That must have been a weight off of your shoulders."

He laughed. "I guess you could say that - it definitely wasn't the kind of speech I expected, but things turned out all right in the end, so that's all that matters. If guess if there's one thing the rally taught me, it's that you can't really count on things happening the way you think they will no matter how much you plan - sometimes you just have to figure things out as you go."

"That's true for life as well," Sadie observed, "which is why it's good to do something ridiculous from time to time - it helps you stay adaptable." She gave him a cheeky grin, and to her surprise, he returned the smile.

"You may be right about that," he agreed. "Though I think 'ridiculous in moderation' is really what we've been discussing all along - emphasis on the moderation, rather than the ridiculous."

"To each his own," Sadie conceded. "So what happens now that you have the reinforcements you've been waiting for?" She was curious to see what his strategic mind had thought up (for surely he was already three or four steps ahead of things at this point already).

"Well, now that Jack's back, he's going to reassume command of the newsies - that's why I'm back at school now, just for the day; they don't really need an extra leader hanging around at the lodging house. Jack and Race will be briefing the boys about some things, and we'll resume the strike efforts tomorrow. We took a few days off to let the impact of the strike be felt in the other neighborhoods and to recover after the rally before we make our final push. It's going to be a big one, though. We're hoping to finally settle things once and for all."

"Will you be protesting at the distribution center again?" Sadie asked.

Davey shook his head. "Outside of _The World_ \- but that's just part of it. Katherine had a really brilliant idea for us to print our own paper - a paper that will be distributed to the rest of the city's working kids, calling on them to join the strike as well. If we can persuade them to combine forces, the entire city will feel the impact, and the newspaper owners and other bosses will _have_ to listen to what we have to say. We're not just trying to change things for the newsies, now - we're trying to change the whole game. It's something that's never been done before, but if it works..." he trailed off, clearly getting ahead of himself in his excitement. "Well, if it works, it could change a lot of things for the better."

"David!" Margaret exclaimed, turning around to look at him in surprise, "I didn't realize you were such a talker!"

"See, Megs? I _told _you," Sadie asserted, pleased at the acknowledgement of a point that she had been trying to prove for a while. "Haven't I said as much from the start?"

"You have," Margaret conceded. "And if you'd made that bet with me, you certainly would have won it."

"I don't play to lose," Sadie answered loftily. "You _ought_ to know that by now." Now that Margaret had seen the evidence for herself, perhaps she would be less inclined to persist in her irksome meddling. Sadie had proved, after all, that she had a much better handle on Davey than the other girl did.

Satisfied at this development, Sadie tried to recall what they had been conversing about before Margaret's unexpected interruption. Something about the rest of the city's working children, and changing the game…that was it - changing the game for all, not just for the newsies.

"I apologize for our rather rude tangent," she said. "But back to what you were saying - you mentioned that the newsies will be distributing their paper tomorrow?"

Davey didn't answer at first, and after waiting for a moment, Sadie gently asked her question again.

"Oh! Right. Sorry, I…" he trailed off, as if struggling to gather his thoughts. "Yes - the paper will be distributed either tomorrow evening or the following morning." The rambling excitement in his voice that had been present only moments ago was gone, and he was suddenly back to his careful and deliberate answers.

Sadie didn't know what to make of it, or of the fact that several attempts to draw him out after that proved to be unsuccessful. An abrupt and awkward silence settled as they continued their walk towards the park, which Margaret eventually broke into with some small talk. Sadie gamely chatted away, but she felt uneasy. Clearly, the brief derailing of the conversation had unsettled Davey, but she wasn't sure why.

They reached the park, and he suddenly spoke. "If I've answered all of your questions, I think I'll head back to school now. I've gotten pretty behind on my reading, and I should probably try to catch up."

Sadie looked up at him in surprise. Had he really come all this way fully intending to turn around and walk back as soon as they'd arrived? He had his lunch with him, though, which meant that he'd at least considered the possibility of staying longer...

"If there's more you want to know, I'll do my best to answer," Davey said after a moment when neither girl responded to his initial statement.

Margaret and Sadie exchanged a glance. "I'll let Sadie make that call," the former said. She gave Davey a polite farewell, then turned and walked off towards where their group of friends had gathered.

"Is something wrong, Davey?" Sadie asked, as soon as the other girl was out of earshot. "We haven't offended you with our remarks, have we?"

"No," he said quickly (perhaps a little too quickly, she thought). "It's not - I mean, nothing's wrong. I just - I'd forgotten about my reading, that's all. I really do have a lot to catch up on."

"Well, I certainly wouldn't want to keep you unnecessarily," Sadie answered, still trying to put her finger on what was amiss. "But I do wish I had known that you weren't planning to stay. I wouldn't have let you come all this way just to subject yourself to my interrogation."

"You helped me with preparations for the rally," he said. "I owed you that much." He didn't sound offended, and if she hadn't known him better, she would have taken his words at face value. But she found herself surprised to realize that she _knew_ something was wrong, that he was holding back somehow, even though she still had no idea how to overcome the barrier that he had suddenly felt necessary to put up.

When she didn't say anything after a moment, Davey said politely, "Enjoy your lunch, Sadie. I'll see you back at school." Then he gave her a forced smile and turned away, walking back in the direction from which they'd come and leaving her to puzzle over what had caused his abrupt departure.

* * *

The walk back to the schoolhouse wasn't nearly long enough, and Davey ended up taking several laps around the block, trying to sort through his jumbled thoughts.

It _had_ to have been a coincidence - that was all, just a coincidence - a coincidence, and an unhappy choice of words. There was nothing wrong with what had been said; it was a harmless comment, and nothing more. He was transposing their recent conversation onto another completely unrelated incident, and it was unfair of him to do so, especially when common sense told him that the innocuous remarks on the way to the park were nothing like what had happened in the past.

_This is something completely different,_ he told himself. _She wouldn't hurt you - she's not like that. _

He knew that he was being irrational, and it irked him to no end. At least he'd managed not to give away too much of his agitation (though Sadie clearly still suspected that something was wrong), but now he had to figure out how to push aside the unpleasant memories that had immediately surfaced when the topic of a bet had been broached.

_It was just a coincidence_, he reminded himself again.

There was no reason to conflate this situation with what had happened before, and the less he thought about the past, the better. All evidence pointed to the fact that Sadie was good-hearted and kind (if occasionally a bit careless); she'd certainly proven her generous nature several times over, and he had no reason to be doubting the sincerity of those actions now, just because of some ridiculous offhand comment. He could let this go. He didn't have to let it bother him...

...but still...it probably couldn't hurt to be more careful.

_I don't play to lose, _she'd said.

Did she consider it a game, trying to draw him out? Was that why she'd been so persistently friendly towards him? He hadn't really known her all that long, and he'd sensed even before today that there was that playful side of her that liked getting a reaction out of him, whether that reaction was a rambling disclosure or a flustered silence. It probably wasn't manipulatively intended - in fact, he was sure that it wasn't - but maybe there was an element of diversion in it that he'd been unaware of.

Perhaps her attention had stemmed from a passing fascination with him because he was different, quiet and reserved, a puzzle of sorts. He wondered if that fascination would fade, now that she'd decided she'd solved him.

Well, a dose of reality was always a good thing. He'd probably just gotten ahead of himself, amplifying her friendliness because it was something he was always hoping for whenever he moved to a new neighborhood and was faced with the prospect of having to make new friends. He'd been the outsider enough times to know that friendships didn't generally come about quickly or easily, and of course it would be no different here in Manhattan. He really should have given things more time before jumping to conclusions.

He seemed to be learning a difficult (but important) lesson lately - that people would eventually defy his initial categorization. The matter of the strike had complicated his perception of several of his newfound acquaintances, Jack, Katherine, and Race among them, and now Sadie as well. Jack wasn't just the cocky, confident leader Davey had met on his first day as a newsie. He was also a conflicted young man whose emotions were so strong that they could turn him one way in a moment and the opposite way in the next. Katherine wasn't just a crusading reporter, working her way up from the bottom to procure justice for the downtrodden. She was also a heiress with a pedigree who was willing to walk in both her privilege and her chosen anonymity when it suited her. Race wasn't just a flippant second-in-command, coasting along on sarcasm and quipping remarks while remaining uninvolved. He was also a quick-thinking and occasionally shrewd leader who both knew and felt much more than he let on.

And Sadie. Sadie was…

Davey wasn't really sure at the moment.

But in any case, it was probably all for the best. His friendship with the landlord's daughter had become more of a distraction over the past few days than he would have liked to admit, so in reality, this was a timely reminder to focus on what was important. He couldn't afford to be preoccupied right now. There was too much at stake. And even if that hadn't been the case, he probably wouldn't have wanted…

...well, he probably wouldn't have wanted whatever it was that he'd been feeling over the past few days whenever he'd thought of her - that perplexing welter of confusion and happiness that had hounded him despite his concerted efforts to resist it. It had been a relatively mild affliction...but it was still unsettling, and he would be glad to be rid of it now.

If the past had taught him anything, it was that the initial period of adjusting to someplace new was always the hardest, and that things usually had a way of settling eventually, so he would chalk this up to just a part of that difficult adjustment process. He'd perhaps made some errors in judgement and had misinterpreted a few things, but stepping back really wasn't so hard, and it was better to be cautious now than to be careless and regret it later. He would make his adjustments, move forward, and that would be that. He would be more guarded and more careful. Then he could put those confusing thoughts to rest, and put his energies towards what truly mattered.

It was all for the best.

Feeling better now that he had reasoned through the situation, Davey returned to the classroom, ready to focus his attention on his reading.

He really _did_ have a lot of catching up to do.

* * *

**A/N: **This has probably been clear for a while now, but I've chosen to take a slant on Davey's character that goes past what might be considered a strictly canon interpretation. I always try to avoid writing characters OOC, but I do like to reasonably push the limits if I feel that doing so can offer a different angle - hence, this story's introspective version of Davey who tends to overthink things and has a complicated relationship with words (his own and others'). He's intelligent and observant and has a lot of strengths, but he's also grappling with his own anxieties and his past experiences, and he's his own worst enemy at times. Despite the fact that he's not a completely faithful rendering of his musical predecessor and that he doesn't fit the archetype of the typical protagonist in this fandom, I hope that you still find him to be a realistic and compelling Davey to root for, and I thank you for following along on his adventures thus far!

I'd love to hear any thoughts/conjectures about this chapter if you're willing to share!


	44. The Reunion

**Disclaimer: **This is a non-commercial work of fanfiction. Anything recognizable from _Newsies_ belongs to Disney and not to me.

* * *

Chapter 44: The Reunion

For probably the third time that day, Race selfishly wished that Davey hadn't decided to go back to school on his day off.

It would have helped to have at least _one_ even-tempered leader in the lodging house meeting. Crutchie generally served as the stabilizing force between Jack's emotional volatility and Race's quick-flaring temper (though Crutchie himself could be feisty at times), but in his absence, Davey's level-headedness would have been the next best thing.

It was better that Davey wasn't there though, for his own sake. Race knew that the heated confrontation with Jack the day before had been draining for the conflict-adverse newsie (who didn't know that Jack and Race had had several disagreements in the past, most of which had ended with fists being thrown, though yesterday's altercation had been by far the most heated of their verbal skirmishes). Today's meeting would no doubt be a tense one, and emotions would likely run high. Race had already prepared himself for the possibility of a small riot breaking out, but he hoped that it wouldn't come to that. If anything, Katherine's presence would hopefully be an effective deterrent from any overly-reactive behavior.

Katherine. Race rubbed his temples, trying to massage away the beginnings of a headache. He hadn't shown much of a reaction when Jack had broken the news of the reporter's rather close connection with Pulitzer, but inwardly he _had_ been surprised, though he'd instinctively understood why she'd done it. There was a time and place to keep one's cards close to one's chest, after all...and she wasn't the only one keeping secrets.

Race sighed. He could tell that his headache was the kind that wasn't going to leave, no matter what he did. The only cure for it would be to sleep it off, but he had a full day ahead of him, so he'd have to tough it out before he could seek relief (though even that was uncertain, given how regularly sleep had eluded him lately).

He'd hardly closed his eyes the night before, still on edge from the day's events. He and Jack had only talked for a few minutes more after Davey's departure, and once they'd settled on a time for the meeting, Jack had left as well, saying he'd spend one more night at Irving Hall before moving back to the lodging house for good the following day. Race had expected as much - Jack seemed to want to draw out his separation from the newsies as long as possible, probably wary of the confrontation that would inevitably take place - but after the meeting today, he'd _have_ to find a way to re-integrate himself. Race had made it clear that he was more than ready to release his temporary authority back into Jack's hands, and he'd waited long enough - that son-of-a-gun was just going to have to find a way to make it work. After the lodging house meeting concluded that afternoon, Race was officially stepping back, and if Jack wanted someone to help him lead the strike from that point on, he would have to go to Davey; Race had a week and a half's worth of gambling and general bumming around to catch up on, and while he would certainly still participate in the strike with the rest of the newsies, he was going to take full advantage of the freedom he'd been denied since the strike began - the freedom to come and go as he pleased without having to answer to anyone, the freedom to look out for no one but himself. Jack could take his turn being the responsible one; Race had already served his time.

Race grimaced, his thoughts quickly beginning to turn sour - he had outwardly made peace with Jack, partially because he didn't want to deal with the other newsie's emotional disclosures, and partially to appease Davey, but they were far from completely reconciled, at least in Race's mind. Jack's claim - that he had acted as he did to save the other newsies from being locked up in The Refuge - had seemed sincere (and in fact, it probably was). But Race had known Jack long enough to be acquainted with the newsie leader's willingness to say anything he had to in order to charm his way into someone's good graces (there was a reason why Jack was the best of the best at hawking headlines, after all).

Race wondered what kind of spin Jack would put on his explanation at the lodging house meeting that afternoon. He had expressed some regret for his mistakes in front of Race and Davey, but Race wondered how much ownership Jack would take for the fallout of the past week and a half in front of the other newsies.

The sound of approaching voices reached Race's ears, and he slowly got up from where he'd been sitting at the bunk room table to greet the newsies at the door - they'd been out in the morning, one group heading to St. Peter's to see if they could procure some extra rations from the nuns, and the other half of the group making their way to Jacobi's in search of a deal on the previous day's bread. Stomachs had gone empty these past few days more often than Race would have liked, but the boys were in high spirits, especially after the success of the rally, and with some luck, they wouldn't have to be scraping by with no income for very much longer.

He'd stayed back at the lodging house in case Jack decided to show up early, but he probably should have just gone with the rest of the boys - there was still no sign of the newsie leader.

Race felt his head beginning to throb as the boisterous sound of the newsies' chatter filled the lodging house and the stamping of feet sounded on the stairway. The group from St. Peter's had returned, carrying a few sacks of food.

"Nice work, fellas." Race gave them an approving nod. "Go ahead and eat some before we get started - but leave a portion for the fellas who went over to Jacobi's in case they came up short."

The newsies began to tuck into their food, chattering animatedly and teasing each other mercilessly as they ate. Race hadn't told them what the meeting was going to be about, or that Jack was going to be there - he'd only informed them that there were some important details they'd need to go over regarding the strike. No one had questioned him, though they certainly would have in the past, before the strike.

Race watched the group of boys finish up their food, shaking his head when Elmer offered him a portion. He didn't feel like eating at the moment; he just wanted to get the meeting over with. It was going to be hard for him to play the part of impartial moderator and to not let his residual frustrations with Jack show, but he knew that he had to portray an unwavering support for the newsie leader if the rest of the lodging house was to get on board.

It wasn't that Race couldn't work with Jack - he just wasn't sure if he could trust him right now. Eventually, he'd get there - probably. But it was too soon, too fresh, and he needed his space. Usually having some time away from Jack helped things, but Race knew he wouldn't get that opportunity until after the strike settled, so he resigned himself to holding back his irritation for the present and counting on his adeptness at bluffing to do the rest.

He missed Crutchie. Crutchie seemed to be able to draw out the best in Jack, to get the newsie leader to be a more straightforward and sincere version of himself. Race had never figured out how Crutchie managed to do it, but there was something about his steady optimism and unshakable spirit that Jack responded well to. And they desperately needed that steadfastness back at the lodging house...

Race was drawn out of his rumination by the sound of the second group of newsies arriving. They, too, had managed to secure a modest amount of food from Jacobi's, though they'd had to spend all of the allowance Race had given them from the Newsie Fund, and they soon sat down to join the rest of their brothers at their mid-day meal.

Race was again offered a share of food, and again he declined it, feeling more antsy by the minute. He probably ought to break the news to the boys first before Jack suddenly showed up and surprised them - someone was liable to choke on a piece of bread or something.

Massaging his temples in one last futile attempt to lessen the tension in his head, Race cleared his throat and was about to address the newsies, when suddenly they fell silent of their own accord, staring as one in the direction of the doorway.

Race didn't have to look to know what had caused the collective stillness, but look he did, and his suspicions were confirmed: Jack and Katherine stood there on the threshold.

* * *

Katherine had never been inside a lodging house before. The foyer area where she and Jack had entered appeared to be neat and well-kept, but once they'd ascended the narrow staircase leading up the bunk room where the newsboys resided, things had proved to be twice as disorganized as she'd expected: clothes hung haphazardly off of rows of bunkbeds, the floor was littered with toiletries and miscellaneous items (a slingshot here, a deck of cards there), and the table and chairs at the far end of the room looked strangely situated, as though someone had gotten up from them in a hurry and hadn't bothered to put them back where they belonged.

"I shoulda told Racer to have the fellas pick things up a bit," Jack had muttered quietly, turning back to give her an apologetic look. "Guess he ain't observin' the normal cleanin' schedule."

"He's probably had other things on his mind," Katherine had responded. "It's understandable..." She'd trailed off then as the lodging house became suddenly silent, the previously-conversing newsies at once aware of their presence.

For a moment, no one said anything. Katherine, instinctively wanting to break into the silence with a question, held her tongue with some effort. She was only here to help explain the plan that she and Jack had come up with; she wasn't here to play mediator between the newsies and their estranged leader, no matter how much she wanted to step in.

Accustomed to reading the nuances of nonverbal communication, the former reporter studied the newsboys' faces. A range of emotions were there, varying from hopeful excitement to wary disbelief to almost-sullen anger.

The only one with a completely neutral expression was Race.

"Hey Jacky, Katherine," the gambler greeted them cautiously. "I was just about to tell the fellas you was gonna be stoppin' by." He motioned them into the room, and Jack slowly walked forward to join the group, Katherine following behind him. It felt awkward to be standing there amidst the disarray with the rest of the boys squatting on the floor or lounging on their beds, and they must have sensed it too, for a few of them shuffled into sitting positions, and one of them (she'd really have to learn all of their names at some point, as she'd forgotten even the few that she'd managed to catch earlier in passing) hurried over to the table at the back of the room and came back with a chair for her. She thanked him quietly, and he responded with a little nod before returning to join the rest of the boys.

Jack remained standing.

"So, I guess you have a lot to catch the fellas up on," Race said, motioning for Jack to take the lead. "You, ah, wanna start from the beginnin'?"

Katherine looked over at Jack, and saw that he was struggling to keep his emotions under control. He'd read the expressions on his boys' faces too, she was sure of it, and the weight of their mixed feelings towards his reappearance was no doubt tearing him apart.

Nothing would get better if he didn't attempt to clarify the situation, though. She gave him a gentle pat on the arm, and it seemed to give him courage, for he cleared his throat and began to speak.

She'd encouraged him on the walk over to explain things as plainly as possible to the newsies, to try his hardest to give them the facts without getting defensive. (She knew that she was partially speaking to herself in that admonishment; they both could be passionate and reactive when misunderstood, but a humble approach would need to be taken if Jack was to win the trust of the newsies again).

So she was inwardly proud to note that he seemed to be putting her words to practice as he addressed the lodging house. He explained the dilemma he'd found himself in upon finding himself caught in Pulitzer's trap, and the no-win option he'd been forced to take. By prior agreement, he also explained Katherine's connection to the newspaper owner, a disclosure that caused more than a few surprised glances in her direction and several suspicious looks, but thankfully nothing more. Jack continued on, recounting his actions on the night of the rally (struggling through a few parts of it, but basically just giving the facts) and the ensuing conversation he'd had with Katherine on the rooftop.

(She noticed that didn't say anything about his disappearance after Crutchie's arrest or his ambiguous mentions of Santa Fe, but perhaps the least said on either of those subjects the better).

Jack concluded by giving the newsies a run-down of the plan they'd schemed up on the rooftop, modified slightly in keeping with Race and Davey's (mostly Davey's) suggestions. Katherine interjected on a few points, adding a detail here and there or clarifying some of Jack's statements when she saw confusion begin to cloud the newsies' eyes, but for the most part, she let him speak.

And then, suddenly Jack had said all he felt he needed to say, and it was over.

No one had interrupted - in fact, no one had even spoken. The newsies had all been eerily silent, sitting as though spellbound, and once Jack finished his rundown, Katherine wondered if _anyone_ was going to react. She'd expected frustrated outbursts or angry accusations or at the very least _questions_ from these boys who never seemed to stop talking and were always shooting off some smart remark or another. She hadn't expected complete and utter silence.

Jack was clearly unnerved by the stillness as well. He shot her an uneasy look, and Katherine was about to address the newsies herself to try to elicit _some_ kind of reaction, when Race broke the silence.

"So, I'm guessin' you fellas might have some questions for Jack and Katherine," he said, sounding pained, though she wasn't sure why. "If you wanna say somethin,' now's the time. Otherwise, we move on Pulitzer's basement tomorrow evening and end this thing for good."

The succinct and authoritative statement clearly surprised Jack. He shot a look at the gambler, who declined to meet his eye, and she couldn't tell if Jack was thankful that Race had stepped in to dispel the awkward silence, or if he was off-put that his second-in-command was still speaking as though he was in charge of the newsies' future decisions.

Hadn't they talked about this? she wondered. From Katherine's understanding, Jack and Race had determined that after this meeting concluded, Jack would stay at the lodging house, resuming his role as the sole leader of the newsies (though Race and Davey would continue to act as advisors, the former as he had done before the strike began, and the latter until the strike concluded). But clearly they hadn't anticipated how clumsy that transfer of leadership might be.

"I got a question," a newsie spoke up, breaking into Katherine's thoughts. "How'd Pulitzer find out about where the rally was gonna be held, and about Racer and Davey leadin' it, too? That ain't exactly common knowledge. Pretty sure he would've had to learn that from someone on the inside." The question was accompanied by a pointed look in Katherine's direction, and she felt a tiny flare of irritation.

"My father has eyes and ears all over this city," she responded cooly, telling herself to stay calm. "He doesn't need me spying for him."

"She's on our side, Henry," Jack insisted, before Katherine could say anything more in her defense. "Remember the article? She's fightin' with us, not against us."

"Well how'd the old man get his information, then?" Henry pressed.

"It's like Kath said - Pulitzer's got people spyin' for him all over the place!" Jack exclaimed. "Anyone coulda given him the tip off." His posture shifted just slightly, and Katherine could tell that he was bracing for an argument.

"We's just gotta take their word for it, Henry," another newsie broke in quietly, turning to look at his friend. "I ain't blamin' you for askin' the question - had the same one myself - but we gotta trust each other, ya know? Otherwise we ain't gonna be able to get nowhere."

The statement seemed to mollify Henry somewhat, for he didn't say anything more, but Katherine could tell that he was far from convinced of her innocence. She wondered how many of the other newsies felt the same.

"What are we gonna do about Crutchie?" came another question, this one spoken by a newsboy wearing glasses. "We gotta do somethin' to help him."

Jack and Race both answered at the same time.

"We finish the strike first so we have a better chance of gettin' the charges against him dropped."

"We bust him outta that place ourselves if this thing goes longer than two more days."

They looked at each other. Both were clearly irritated by the other's answer, and Katherine could feel the tension mounting...but before things could escalate, Race backed down.

"We finish the strike first," he muttered, giving a stiff nod in Jack's direction. "And _then_ we bust Crutchie out."

Jack's defensive expression softened at the other boy's capitulation. "Yeah," he agreed, his voice quiet and determined. "We bust him out first thing." Katherine could tell that neither he nor Race had any idea how they were going to approach such a daunting task, but the loyalty and love they had for their missing brother was clear in both of their voices, and she was thankful that, whatever differences still lay between them, at least they had this much in common.

"Are you gonna be coming back to the lodging house for good now, Jack?" one of the younger newsies piped up hopefully. "Things sure haven't been the same without ya."

A half-smile stretched across Jack's face, and he looked as though he wanted to step forward and pull the boy into a hug right then and there. "You bet'cha I'm comin' back for good, Romeo," he said, sounding a little choked up. "I've been away from you bummers long enough."

Romeo _did_ launch himself at Jack then, throwing his arms around the older newsie with a force that made Jack stagger back a little.

That seemed to break the tension, and suddenly the newsies were all moving and talking again, and some were smiling and clapping Jack on the back. A few hung back warily, Katherine noticed, but they didn't look quite as apprehensive as before. Race's expression was as unreadable as ever, but even he seemed to relax a little.

"All right, all right," Jack said gruffly, ruffling Romeo's hair and giving a few of the other boys good-natured punches in the arm. "You don't gotta crowd a fella. I missed ya, all right? There, I said it!" The statement was accompanied by the biggest, brightest smile Katherine had ever seen, and while she knew that he had caught the cautious looks on the faces of those who hadn't joined in the celebration, she could tell that Jack had gotten his confidence back the moment Romeo had barreled into him with his unexpected hug.

Maybe things would take a while to completely return to normal, she reflected, but they were at least starting to get back on track, and time had a way of healing most wounds. Jack had done his best to explain himself, and if some of the newsies needed more time to come around, that was to be expected. At the very least, Jack was back at the lodging house and back with his boys - at long last right where he belonged.

* * *

**A/N: **And the reunion is finally complete. Thank you for reading this chapter; please let me know what you thought of it, and stay safe and well during this time! Sending you a virtual hug/fist bump/elbow tap from my little corner of the world!


	45. A Rude Awakening

**Disclaimer: **This is a non-commercial work of fanfiction. Anything recognizable from _Newsies_ belongs to Disney and not to me.

* * *

Chapter 45: A Rude Awakening

Moonlight was streaming through the window of his family's apartment when Les was unexpectedly woken from sleep. He rolled over, bunching his pillow up under his head and wondering irritably what it was that had pulled him so abruptly out of his slumber in the middle of the night. It was clearly too early to be getting up for school.

In the bed beside him, David stirred, and Les was about to give his brother a precautionary shove to make sure that he stayed on his side, when the older boy suddenly began speaking.

"We're just a bunch...just a bunch'a angry kids...with no money."

Les groaned quietly. _Of course. _He now knew what it was that in all likelihood had ruined the possibility of a full night's rest for him - his brother's occasional propensity for sleep-talking. It wasn't something that happened too often (and David really had no control over it), but when he was especially preoccupied or unusually tired, this inclination tended to assert itself, and Les rolled over in bed again, wearily resigning himself to the fact that he would not be dozing off again anytime soon.

Well, if he was going to be stuck listening to his brother's rambling, he might as well see if he could learn anything interesting. Most of David's nighttime disclosures were rather boring, as the older boy didn't have many things to say that held any fascination for Les, but occasionally there would be a word or a phrase that could be embellished into suitable material for blackmail.

(Contrary to what one would expect, Les had been improving the truth long before he became a newsboy).

So he quickly pulled out a pencil and paper that he kept tucked on the side of the bed for just such occasions and waited patiently. For a few moments, David was silent, and Les was almost on the verge of trying to settle back into bed, when his brother suddenly spoke again.

"I mean...her baking can't be _that_ bad…"

Hmm. Well, that was _slightly_ more interesting than usual.

"What are you talking about?" Les asked aloud. "Whose baking?" His brother generally didn't answer his questions, but it made the situation more amusing to pretend to carry on a conversation.

"It's a big responsibility, Jack. A big...responsibility," David scolded, as though the newsie leader was actually right there in the room.

"What's a big responsibility?" Les questioned. "Or maybe I should ask, 'what _isn't _a big responsibility to you, David?'" He grinned at his own quip.

"I really don't think that's a good idea," his brother continued warningly. "Could be too dangerous."

Les shook his head in dismay. He didn't know how it was possible for someone to be _this_ boring, even while asleep. There probably wouldn't be any interesting one-liners tonight - David seemed intent on sticking to the subjects of personal wellbeing and liability, things he certainly talked about enough while awake, and Les could have recited most of those lectures in _his_ sleep.

"Besides, it's not really fair..." the older boy declared, sounding suddenly more emphatic than before.

"What's not fair?" Les asked, only half-hoping for an answer by this time.

"...for a girl to have a smile that pretty," David finished.

Hold on now. _Here_ was something useful.

Les grinned, leaning forward and hoping that his brother would elaborate. "Who are you talking about, David?" he asked. "Who's got a pretty smile?"

"Ambassadors," his brother mumbled, before falling silent.

Les waited for several more moments, but there seemed to be nothing further that the older boy's subconscious determined needed to be said, and after a while, Les heard his breathing settle, slow and even, and he knew that he wasn't likely to get anything further out of David that night.

No matter. He had more than enough to work with.

Eagerly, Les began scribbling away on his piece of paper. He of course had no idea whom his brother was really talking about, but David never remembered what he'd said in his sleep, so he would have no idea that Les was taking a few artistic liberties with the information he'd unwittingly shared. The girl with the pretty smile could have been anyone - a friend from the past, or a new acquaintance, or someone David had walked by on the street, but assuming that the connection was a recent one, that narrowed the field quite a bit.

It _had_ to be Sadie. She was the only girl David had regularly spent time with since moving to Manhattan, and even though there were others he'd been friends with in the past, it seemed unlikely they'd be on his mind. Les knew that the evidence for this conclusion was flimsy at best, but he was cunning enough to realize that, whether or not it was true, making Sadie the subject of his brother's sleep talking would give Les the most leverage for manipulation and would definitely get a reaction. Besides, the landlord's daughter _did_ have a pretty smile, so maybe the conclusion really wasn't so far-fetched after all.

Now to figure out what he was going to demand from David in return for not divulging this "sensitive" information. In the past, Les had asked for small favors - the chance to spend an extra half-hour with his friends after school, for a day free of scolding, or for a night with the bed to himself. But he knew that he could bargain for far more with a disclosure like this (as exaggerated as it would be), and he wanted to make the opportunity count.

The printing! That was it. He would blackmail David into letting him go to the printing of _The Newsies Banner _that night. The older boy had stated on no uncertain terms that he was _not_ going to take Les along when the newsies snuck into Pulitzer's basement under the cover of darkness, citing (predictably) the potential danger of the scheme, but Les, ever since he'd heard of the plan, was dying to go, and now he had a way of forcing his brother's consent. He would simply have to make sure he played his cards right, using _just_ enough of David's actual disclosure for the embellished story to sound believable, and letting the older boy's tendency to overthink do the rest.

Perhaps it wasn't a very nice thing to do, Les reflected, a brief feeling of uneasiness giving him pause. David would probably panic, and he really hadn't said anything all that incriminating. But then again, it hadn't been very nice of David to suggest sending Les back to school, either (Les had overheard the conversation between his older brother and their mother, and knew that it was David's initiative that had prompted the temporary return to the classroom while the strike dragged on). It wasn't fair that David got to be out having fun with the newsies while Les was stuck in school; after all, Les was just as much a part of the strike as his brother.

He was sure that David's overprotectiveness was well meant, but it grated, and Les had been waiting for the opportunity to assert his independence, so come to think of it, this little bit of manipulation wasn't really so bad after all. It wasn't an unwarranted attack - he was only evening the score. David had made his life miserable by sending him back to school; Les would make his life a bit miserable in return.

It wasn't that he disliked his brother - far from it, actually. Les had commiserated with enough of his peers at school to know that older brothers generally were a pain, not just his particular older brother, and in fact, David was probably a pretty mild case - Les would never forget the time he'd innocently asked one of his friends about a rather large bruise on his arm, and the boy had confided that he'd gotten the mark from his older brother, who had hit him for accidentally breaking one of his belongings. (Les had given David a hug that night before they'd gone to bed and had endeavored for the rest of the week to be on his best behavior, though he'd never told the older boy why).

But they were just so different. Les couldn't understand his brother's insistence on adhering so strictly to the rules, or his relentless drive to always be doing something _meaningful_. The world didn't seem that black and white to Les, and life didn't seem that serious, so they clashed on a regular basis, and Les occasionally chafed under David's expectations and his example, though he knew the older boy tried very hard not to let that dynamic affect their relationship. Their parents, thankfully, rarely admonished Les to be more like his deliberate, responsible older brother, but the comparison was there despite the fact that neither boy was comfortable with it.

Well, it could be worse, Les thought. At least there were some good things about having David as a brother. He was fair and patient and accommodating and usually let Les have the last word (though he was completely immovable on the rare occasions when he put his foot down). And the fact that he could be occasionally exploited in cases like these was just another benefit of his earnest nature, a nature that the more cunning Les did not share.

The possibility of his uptight older brother fancying someone, especially a girl like Sadie (who seemed to be carefree and fun and everything David _wasn't_), amused and intrigued Les. He knew that what he'd overheard was by no means a confession of interest, but the possibility was there, and he was hopeful that further opportunities to capitalize on the situation would present themselves. If they did, there was no telling what kinds of favors or permissions he'd be able to obtain.

Satisfied with the night's revelation, Les carefully tucked his piece of paper and pencil back into their spot on the side of the bed and settled down, eager for the morning to arrive so that he could put his plan into motion.

David may have been the smart one in the family, but Les was far more clever...and sometimes it was better to be clever than smart.

* * *

To say that the morning started off poorly for Davey would have been an understatement. He'd overslept, woken up feeling groggy, and before even getting out of bed had been given the unhappy news that he'd divulged some rather embarrassing information about Sadie while sleep-talking. Les had used this information to his advantage, blackmailing Davey into allowing him to go along with the newsies that night in exchange for his silence, and even insisting on a spit-shake in order to seal the deal.

After this rude awakening, Davey had reluctantly eaten breakfast and had gotten ready for the day before dutifully (if a bit irritably) walking Les to school. They'd run into the Becker sisters on their way there, and though Les had kept his word and hadn't said anything to either one of them, their meeting had been stilted and awkward, and Davey had found himself relieved to be heading towards the lodging house, alone with his thoughts after parting ways with the rest of the group at the schoolhouse.

He'd probably given in a little too quickly to Les' demands, he reflected. There was no way of verifying that what the younger boy _claimed_ Davey had said was true, and it was hard not to suspect over-dramatization playing a part whenever Les was involved...but still, there was no way of disproving Les' assertions, either, and if there was one thing that terrified Davey, it was the possibility of Sadie finding out about the ridiculous things he'd said about her, especially at the hands of his exaggerative little brother.

He'd eventually convinced Les to show him the paper where the younger boy had written down what he'd overheard, and the contents of that document had been enough to make Davey completely embarrassed and ready to capitulate to almost any demands proposed. Perhaps it made him a poor excuse for an older brother that he was willing to risk Les' safety just to keep his own pride intact, but the situation facing him if he refused to cooperate wasn't one he was willing to undergo.

Davey once again chided himself for giving in to his brother's manipulation (and for not cross-examining him more closely), but there really wasn't anything he could do about it now. He'd been cornered into letting Les come that night, so now he would need to think of a reasonable (and truthful) explanation to give their mother before Les came home from school later that afternoon.

He fervently hoped that the younger boy was still holding up his end of the bargain.

Davey rubbed the back of his neck unhappily. Assuming he really _had_ said those things, he had another problem on his hands. He probably ought to do some reading on the science of sleep-talking (if indeed such research existed) - was it truly an expression of one's subconscious thoughts, a kind of unfiltered reflection of the mind and heart when they weren't being checked by the restraints of propriety and expectation? Or was it just an unrelated process that had no rational bearing whatsoever?

He hoped it was the latter. He had no reason to be thinking those kinds of things about Sadie. He wasn't sweet on her (as Les claimed); he wasn't even sure _what_ to think about her, especially after their last conversation on the way to the park. Perhaps he'd had some occasionally confusing feelings, but those were behind him now, and even those thoughts had been nothing like what he'd read on Les' paper.

The one point he was willing to grudgingly concede had crossed his mind before was the admission that Sadie had a pretty smile. In fact, he'd noticed it the first time they'd met, but at that moment he'd been so off-put by her carelessness and her amusement at his expense that it hadn't made an impression on him...though later it had been a different story.

Regardless, he wouldn't have said those other things about her.

Davey shook his head, trying to clear his thoughts. Les _had_ to be making it up. That was the only possible explanation. If for some reason the truth - not the truth; rather, the _story_ \- got out, he could deny it in good conscience and laugh it off. Sadie had commented often enough in the past about younger siblings and their antics where Davey knew that if he told her Les was twisting the facts, she'd believe him. There was nothing to be worried about. There was no way Sadie would take such outlandish remarks seriously if she were to find out about them. In fact, she'd probably laugh them off herself, even without his denial of their validity. They were too ridiculous to be true. He could put the unfortunate incident aside.

It was time to focus on the strike.

The last few days since the rally had been so full of activity and plans and unexpected conversations that Davey had started to feel the delayed fatigue catching up to him. He knew that he'd been running on a potent (but ultimately unsustainable) combination of excitement and stress ever since becoming a newsboy, and that the sudden drop-off in stamina was inevitable, but he was planning to ride the rush for as long as he could. Now was not the time for slacking off. He could recover later when things settled down.

It was a slightly ironic thought; when he'd first come to Manhattan, he'd been struggling with even the smallest change to his routine, unsettled by the need to adjust to a new school and a new neighborhood, and trying to figure out how to fit in, despite the fact that he never felt like he'd accomplished that anywhere his family had lived in the past. His greatest wish had been for stability and for a predictable schedule, and his greatest concerns had been trying to make friends at school and making sure Les didn't get himself killed doing...whatever ridiculous things Les always insisted on doing.

And then the accident had come and turned everything upside down. Suddenly, making friends at school and learning the layout of a new neighborhood were irrelevant (though Les' wellbeing remained a concern). Instead, Davey's thoughts had become consumed with how he was going to bring in enough money to pay the rent and to keep his family from going hungry. He'd felt overwhelmed by the sudden and heavy responsibility and had, above all, feared his inability to do the job, but he'd pushed forward because giving up was the only other option.

And then, hot on the heels of the accident, came the strike. And suddenly, things changed again. The objective became not simply day-to-day survival (though the reality of that never left) but instead impacting the very injustices that made that objective near-impossible for some in the most dire of circumstances. And suddenly he wasn't only thinking about his own family, but about the wellbeing of a group of boys he'd only met just a few days prior. And suddenly he wasn't just David Jacobs the quiet new kid who kept his head down and tried his hardest not to make it too obvious that he really had no clue what he was doing. Suddenly, someone was looking to him for the answers, depending on his leadership, pushing him to share the thoughts that were always on his mind but rarely spoken aloud.

He'd been the new kid at the circulation gate, of course - but somehow the newsies had known that there was more to him than that. The fact that they - Jack and Race in particular - had drawn out aspects of Davey that he himself hadn't even known were there was astonishing, especially considering the fact that it all had happened in such a relatively short (if intense) span of time.

He didn't even feel like he was the same boy who had moved to Manhattan less than two months ago. Where was the David who never wanted to lead anything, who balked at the idea of speaking in front of crowds, who was too reserved to make friends easily, and whose thoughts somehow always got mixed up before he could give voice to them?

Well, he was definitely still alive and kicking, Davey thought ruefully, remembering the protest he'd put up before agreeing to speak at the rally and some of his more recent failures to adequately communicate. But something else was there, too. He felt more sure of himself, more confident, and a little less afraid to speak his mind. He'd always had big ideas and strong convictions, but he'd rarely been forced to give voice to them until now. Something about expressing them felt right, as if a part of him that had always been bottled up was finally being released, and with that came a sense of freedom and fulfillment that Davey had never felt before in his life.

The fact that he was doing this alongside others dedicated to the same cause only deepened his satisfaction. And as he thought more about the newsies and what their camaraderie had come to mean to him, he realized that maybe what he'd been looking for all this time wasn't simply a stable routine or an environment free of disruption. In fact, both of those things had been relatively absent ever since the strike began. Perhaps what he'd really been looking for was a place to belong, a place where he could both share and listen to ideas (and where those ideas mattered), a place where friendship didn't have to be based on common life circumstances or the same socio-economic status, but could develop and deepen from the pursuit of a common goal.

It was rather striking to think that perhaps he'd found what he'd been looking for amongst the newsies. He never would have guessed that the kinds of boys he'd passed countless times on the streets (barely registering their presence other than to occasionally get annoyed at their aggressive selling techniques), would eventually come to be the kinds of people he considered his close friends.

Well, maybe it was a bit too soon to be going there - he had only known them for a few weeks, and though their comradeship had certainly been accelerated by the high-stakes situation they'd found themselves fighting through together, there was no telling what things would look like once the strike was over. The common ground that they shared was bound up in the events of the last several weeks, and what Davey had told Race was true - any expertise he'd been able to lend to his role would end once the strike did. He knew he would still have a place with the newsies even when he was no longer their de-facto co-leader and sometimes-spokesman, but he wondered if their differences - which had been so apparent that very first day at the circulation gate - would once again come to the forefront and would affect his ability to ever truly be one of them.

Davey shook off the melancholy thought. The feeling of being different and of never really fitting in wasn't anything new to him. He'd concluded several years ago that it was a combination of his naturally reticent temperament and having moved so much that caused this sentiment to surface often, but its familiarity didn't make it any easier to swallow.

He'd just have to take things one day at a time. Maybe he was overthinking it, and the easy camaraderie he'd enjoyed with the newsies would continue even after the strike was over. He had to give it a chance. If he'd been realizing lately that other people weren't all he'd thought they were at first glance, he had to apply that epiphany to himself as well.

Maybe it was time to stop defining himself so strictly by who he'd been in the past.

Davey continued walking, lost in his thoughts, and before he knew it, he had reached the lodging house and was standing on the threshold of the door he'd lately been going in and out of almost as regularly as he'd transversed the entrance to his own family's apartment.

He'd arrived at his home away from home, and there were brothers inside who were waiting for him.

After only a brief moment of hesitation, Davey pushed open the door and stepped inside.

* * *

**A/N**: The actual conversation between Davey and Les regarding Davey's sleep talking can be found in Les' chapter of Kings and Kingdoms (which was written before I'd even started this story) if you're interested in knowing how that went down and, incidentally, what sparked the idea for the romance subplot of Something Worth Winning. Thanks for reading! I'd love to hear what you thought of this chapter!


	46. Two Key Allies

**Disclaimer: **This is a non-commercial work of fanfiction. Anything recognizable from _Newsies_ belongs to Disney and not to me.

* * *

Chapter 46: Two Key Allies

The trip from Lower Manhattan to Lincoln Square would have taken Katherine an hour and a half on foot, and she had neither the time nor the inclination to trudge that far, so she took a carriage part way and walked the last few blocks to Central Park West. The Hearsts lived in an upscale apartment within view of the park, and she located the building easily enough. She'd phoned Bill the day before, and he'd offered to come down to Newspaper Row to meet her, but Katherine had wanted to minimize the chance of one of her father's lackeys finding out about her whereabouts, so she'd insisted on making the trip to the Upper West Side instead.

It was Tuesday. Tonight was the night the newsies would undertake their most risky move yet - sneaking into enemy territory under the cover of darkness to print the paper that would hopefully turn the tide irrevocably in their favor. Jack, Davey, and Race were probably meeting at the lodging house at that very moment, going over the final details of their plan and making sure that there was nothing they'd missed. Jack had invited Katherine to be present, but she'd declined; between the three of them, they'd have things well in hand. And besides, she had her own work to do.

Quickening her pace, the former reporter hurried up the steps of the apartment building where the Hearsts lived. Bill was waiting for her in the lobby. "Good afternoon, Katherine," he greeted her. "It's a beautiful day outside; what do you say we grab something to eat in Central Park and talk then?"

To any casual observer, the words would have sounded like a lighthearted suggestion, but Katherine caught the deliberate look in Bill's eye, and she knew that he was subtly warning her that they needed to put some distance between themselves and his family's apartment before discussing anything important.

There were certain things you learned being the child of a newspaper tycoon, and she and Bill shared a _lingua franca _of sorts, one that consisted not of words but of covert cues and shrewd maneuvers that were necessary for communication when you were never anonymous and never really alone.

Easily agreeing aloud to Bill's suggestion for the benefit of any who might be eavesdropping, Katherine followed her friend as he led the way out of the apartment building and across the street to Central Park. It _was_ a beautiful day, in fact, and the lush lawns and well-kept gardens offered a welcome burst of green amidst the brick and stone of the city.

They stopped to buy hotdogs from the first vendor they saw, then continued walking as they ate, chatting pleasantly about nothing in particular. Katherine watched her friend's face, reading the subtle implications in his tone, trying her hardest to be patient and to respect his need for privacy and distance...but inwardly she was chomping at the bit to apprise him of the reason why she had come.

The idea to involve Bill and Darcy - two of her closest friends when it came to the newspaper business - had hit her shortly after the meeting at the lodging house the afternoon before. She'd been walking home to her apartment (Jack had offered to accompany her, but she'd insisted that he stay with the newsies) when suddenly she'd realized that, even though they'd solved the problem of where they would print the _Newsies Banner,_ they actually had no idea how to operate the printing press in the cellar. It was an oversight that could have easily derailed the entire operation, and Katherine was thankful that it had come to her attention before it was too late.

Accordingly, she'd begun scheming and then had made a few phone calls. She'd decided to tackle Bill first; sharp and astue, with a canny eye for business in the mode of his father, she knew that it would take some convincing to get him to agree to take part in the break-in on Pulitzer's basement, but his typesetting skills would be integral to the success of their printing, and she was pretty sure she could persuade him to get on board.

Her father had never approved of her friendship with Bill (or Darcy, for that matter), but that hadn't stopped Katherine from associating with whom she pleased, and it pleased her very much to have kept up a cordial rapport with the sons of two of her father's competitors. She had met both boys several years ago at a social function thrown by the mayor, and the three of them had immediately bonded over the shared misery of being the child of a newspaper owner - the never-ending lectures on the importance of the press, the constantly heated discussions on how to one-up the competition, and the general preoccupation of their fathers due to the demands of their jobs.

She saw Darcy more often than Bill; _The Tribune_'s offices were only a block away from _The Sun's_ headquarters, so they would regularly meet for lunch, and at times they'd even gone to see a show together if they weren't working late at their respective offices. Bill was often busy, but Darcy always seemed to have time for her.

"So, what's the latest on that revolution of yours, Katherine?" Bill asked, seemingly assured that the risk of being overheard by any nosy listeners had been sufficiently diminished. "You sure raised a ruckus with that article in _The Sun_."

"We're on the brink of something big, Bill," Katherine confided excitedly. "If we can pull it off, the strike may be over as soon as tomorrow."

"Well, Father will be happy to hear that," Bill remarked. "Some of the newsboys for _The Journal_ are striking too, though they're not quite as organized as your newsies selling for _The World._ It hasn't completely stopped distribution, but it's put a bee in Father's bonnet, and I know he's eager for it to be over." He gave Katherine a keen look. "You must have some pretty bright minds in charge of the operation going up against your father."

She couldn't help smiling proudly. "That's for sure. I'm amazed at the determination and ingenuity of these boys, Bill - they don't have even half of the education or resources we have, but they know how to make things happen from the ground up."

"And they had an ally in a strategic position," he reminded her. "Don't forget what your father always says: 'Publicity, publicity, publicity - '"

"' - is the greatest moral factor and force in our public life,'" Katherine finished, rolling her eyes.

"He's right," Bill shrugged. "If your article hadn't caught the city's attention and given the strike some important coverage, I doubt the newsboys would have gotten as far as they have."

"Well, we've still got a ways to go before we can claim victory," Katherine said. "That's what I came to talk to you about." Quickly, she filled her friend in on the scheme that she and Jack had come up with as well as their dilemma regarding the printing press and its operation. "So, I was hoping that you'd want to get in on some of the action," she concluded, watching Bill's face closely. "We could use your typesetting abilities, if you'd be willing to lend them to the cause."

Bill let out a laugh, shaking his head a little. "You never change, do you, Katherine?" he chuckled. "You know, it seems like just yesterday we were youngsters at one of those parties for the mayor, bored out of our minds while our fathers socialized, and you were trying to get Darcy and me to join you in pilfering some of the sweets that had been set aside for the adults." His smile was sly. "It didn't go so well - if I recall correctly."

"Oh stop it, Bill," Katherine scolded. "This is important."

"You thought the bonbons were too, at the time."

"Now would be a good time to shut up," Katherine warned. She'd forgotten how witty Bill could be when he wasn't directly under the scrutiny of his father or stressed out by some work project.

"If I shut up, you'll never know my answer," he quipped with a grin.

He _was_ ribbing her a bit, and she didn't really have time for it, but his good-humor had always been infectious, and she found herself giving him a grudging smile in return. "Don't shut up, then," she amended. "But _do_ tell me what you think."

"I'll help you out," Bill said easily. "It just so happens my evening's free, so you can count on me being there. Besides, I'd like to meet these newsboys of yours - their gumption is fascinating! I suppose I ought to be opposing them on principle, since they're indirectly responsible for Father's employees striking, too, but I have to respect fellows who are willing to put everything on the line, even when the odds are stacked against them. That's the kind of grit I don't see everyday."

The admiration in his voice was clear, and Katherine let out a quiet sigh of relief. That had been simpler than expected. "Will your father mind?" she asked. In many ways, though Pulitzer was the primary target of the newsboys' protest, the owner of _The Journal_ would be impacted by the implications of the night's events as well, provided the scheme was successful. In fact, the entire _city_ would feel the ripple down effect. No one would be exempted.

Bill waved off her question. "Father's ambitious and driven, but he knows how to adapt; I'm sure this will surprise him, but if his strongest competitor is the one being singled out and hit the hardest…" he gave Katherine a wry smile. "Let's just say I don't think he'll mind my involvement, even if he does happen to find out. But I'm going to try to make sure he doesn't."

"You're the best!" Katherine exclaimed. "I knew I could count on you."

"Well, persuasion's always been one of your strengths," Bill said matter-of-factly. He glanced at his pocket watch. "I'm guessing you're going to be making a stop at _The Trib_ next to call on our other partner in crime?"

Katherine nodded.

"Well, I'll let you get to it, then," Bill said briskly, raising his arm to hail a carriage. "Call me up after you've spoken to Darcy, and let me know what time you need me - I'll be there."

She thanked him, appreciative of both his willingness to help and his graciousness in releasing her from any further need to socialize. Bill had always been pragmatic, incisive, and quick-moving, and she'd never been more grateful for those traits than now.

A carriage pulled over and clattered to a stop, and Bill opened the door and helped Katherine in. "The _Tribune_ Building, Printing House Square," he called to the driver. The carriage pulled away, and he gave her a wave before turning around and strolling back towards his family's apartment.

Katherine sat back, settling in for the return ride to Lower Manhattan. She was thankful to have gotten Bill on board so easily; she'd anticipated him being a hard sell, but he'd agreed quickly enough. Now all that remained was to enlist Darcy.

It should have been the simpler of the two tasks; kind, softhearted Darcy had never been able to say no to her. While Bill was the logical type that had to be convinced that a course of action was at least somewhat advantageous before he'd commit to it, Darcy would almost always say yes out of sheer loyalty. Katherine didn't really expect him to say no.

Still, she found herself uneasy as she anticipated the pending conversation with her friend. Broaching the subject of the strike and their plan would be easy enough, but assuming that Darcy agreed (and no doubt he would) he would eventually have to meet Jack...and there was the rub.

Katherine had always suspected that Darcy fancied her a little, and while he'd never overtly said so, she'd seen the signs - the eager way he got to his feet whenever she came into the room, his willingness to drop whatever he was doing to meet her for lunch, the quickness with which he would step in whenever someone approached her on the street...in fact, the first time she'd run across Jack, she'd actually been on a walk with Darcy, and if she hadn't swiftly shut down the cheeky newsboy herself, no doubt her friend would have happily done it for her.

She hadn't thought much about Darcy's affection then; he hadn't said anything to her, after all, and she was unattached, so there was no harm in going about together occasionally (now and then a gossiping remark or two would come to her ears, but she'd never cared for what the town's busybodies had to say, and Darcy was either ignorant of the remarks or else too happy to be with her to care - or perhaps, as a man, he'd been spared them). But now that she was clearly involved in...well, she wasn't sure what, but it was _something_ with Jack, it didn't seem right to let things with Darcy go on as they had before.

A problem for another time, she decided quickly. They needed to focus on ending the strike first.

The trip back to Printing House Square went faster than expected, and soon Katherine was making her way up the steps of the _Tribune _Building_. _Darcy, by virtue of his father's position, had an office on the ninth floor, and Katherine took the stairs at a brisk pace, her excitement and the desire to stretch her legs after the carriage ride giving spring to her step.

She entered the suite where Darcy worked and caught the eye of his secretary.

"Good afternoon, Miss Plumber," the woman greeted her. "Mr. Reid just returned from a meeting. I'll see if he's available." She stood and bustled down the hall. It wasn't unusual for Katherine to show up around this time, or for Darcy to go out to meet her, so she didn't bother to even ask the reason for Katherine's visits anymore, and the former reporter was thankful that her appearance wouldn't raise any suspicions.

The secretary re-appeared just moments later. "He'll be with you shortly," she said, giving Katherine a little nod before sitting down again at her desk. No sooner had she situated herself, when Darcy appeared in the hallway, impeccably dressed as always.

"Hello, Katherine!" he said cheerfully, fastening the last button of his jacket. "You're here earlier than expected. I take it Bill didn't give you any trouble, then?"

Katherine shot him a look. She didn't particularly want anyone knowing that she'd spoken with Bill earlier that day, and while she had no reason to mistrust Darcy's officemates, those working on the ninth floor had close connections to his father and by extension to the other newspaper owners. The less said in their hearing, the better.

Darcy caught her warning look but seemed unable to decipher its meaning, so Katherine quickly covered with some rather meaningless chatter about their friend who was always busy and never seemed to have time to do anything other than slave away for the family empire. It was slightly true, but it also didn't provide any kind of concrete information, and before Darcy could say anything more, Katherine brightly suggested that they take a walk outside, and almost dragged him out of the office and into the stairwell.

"Katherine...what's this all about?" Darcy asked as they descended. "You only told me that you needed my help with something and that you'd stop over after you talked to Bill, but you're acting like this is some kind of...covert operation or something!"

"That's exactly what it is, Darcy," Katherine confided, willing to speak more freely now that they were out of earshot of anyone else. "The newsies who have been striking against my father are going to be printing their own paper tonight which will call for a city-wide strike. This paper will be distributed to working kids all across the city, and they'll be invited to rally in front of The _New York World_ Building tomorrow. If they answer the call and agree to join up, the entire city will be immobilized, and the newspaper owners and powers that be will _have_ to listen."

They walked in silence for a moment, Katherine not bothering to look over her shoulder to see how her friend was taking the news. Darcy was probably a little surprised by it, but it would be only a matter of seconds before he came around and -

"I could see why you'd want to keep that a secret," he said from behind, still trying to catch up to her. "It's an ambitious plan, no doubt about it, but I bet it'll get the job done."

Predictable, ever-optimistic Darcy.

"There's just one catch," Katherine admitted. "We have access to a printing press, but none of us knows how to operate it." She glanced over at him, slowing her pace just a bit so that he could draw even with her. "I was hoping you might be willing to help us out with that."

He looked a little astonished, but quickly agreed. "Of course, Katherine. Anything for you." He'd said this phrase often enough whenever she'd asked something of him, and she'd honestly started to take it for granted a little, but now the words unsettled her slightly.

She wondered what Darcy would think of Jack. And what the hardscrabble newsies would think of her longtime friends with their clean hands and proper language and tailored suits (the only newsboy she'd ever seen wearing a tie had been Davey, and even he seemed to have abandoned the practice as of late). They were all roughly around the same age, but other than that, they'd have nothing in common. However, they only needed to be able to work together for this one instance. It wasn't necessary for them to be friends, only willing accomplices.

Now that she'd enlisted both Darcy and Bill for the cause, their cadre was complete and everything was in place.

_Almost _everything.

"Will you come over to _The World_ with me, Darcy?" Katherine asked as they finished descending the stairs. "I have some business to take care of, but it won't take long."

"Certainly," he agreed. "Are you going to speak with your father? Maybe make one final effort to settle things?"

Katherine shook her head. It was a nice thought, but they were far past the point of negotiating now. "Actually," she said, "my business is with a much more important person." A sly grin spread across her face as she added, "I'm going to see the janitor about a set of keys."

* * *

**A/N: **Thoughts on Darcy and Bill as characters? They have less than a handful of lines between them in the play, but there _had_ to have been some kind of backstory for them to agree to Katherine's invitation. Thanks, ChibiDawn23, for requesting to see a bit of these two gents in _Something Worth Winning. _I enjoy doing research for this story as a whole, so it was fun to have another opportunity to do so for this chapter.

Hope you'll join me next week for a little basement break-in! In the meantime, please let me know what you thought of the latest installment; your feedback means a lot and is greatly appreciated!


	47. Into the Basement

**Disclaimer: **This is a non-commercial work of fanfiction. Anything recognizable from _Newsies_ belongs to Disney and not to me.

* * *

Chapter 47: Into the Basement

"Which one of you wise guys has the squeaky shoe?"

"It's Buttons!"

"It ain't me!"

"I just heard it squeak right now."

"That was a mouse! They's always comin' out at night to scavenge and such."

"Well whoever's got the squeaky shoe shoulda done somethin' about it before we left! Pulitzer's gonna hear us all the way from his mansion!"

"Heh, I'm pretty sure the old man's hearin' ain't _that_ good."

"It was a _joke, _Elmer."

"You know what's a real joke, Al? Your _face_, that's what."

A loud thwack was heard followed by a sharp "Ow!" and the sound of a scuffle.

"Quiet!" Jack ordered sternly from his place at the head of the line as he turned slightly over his shoulder to scold the rough-housers. "I ain't tellin' you bummers again. If you can't walk nice and orderly, I'm sendin' you back to the lodging house. Ya hear?"

Murmurs of assent were heard from the offending parties, and Jack turned around and continued walking, the rest of the newsies following after him. They were attempting to make their way surreptitiously down Park Row to _The World_'s headquarters where Katherine would be waiting to let them in. So far, they'd managed to avoid arousing any suspicions thanks to the lateness of the hour and the cover of darkness, but it was difficult to keep a group of rambunctious boys quiet for that long.

Race, bringing up the rear of the group, smiled sardonically to himself, thankful that he didn't have to be the one to break up these kinds of tussles anymore. He was content to hang back and observe, occasionally prodding a lagging newsie to pick up the pace, but otherwise left to amuse himself with the boys' collective inability to perform the simple task of walking quietly _anywhere_.

The massive _New York World_ building loomed large against the night sky, and Race could see the dome at the very top where Pulitzer supposedly had his office. He wondered what it would feel like to sit up there every day, looking down on the entire city. If the rumors were true, Pulitzer had built his massive headquarters on the site of a hotel that he'd been thrown out of as a young man, a hotel that he'd later returned to buy and then raze to the ground before constructing his grand headquarters in its place.

It was a powerful and vindictive opponent they were going up against, Race reflected, but Pulitzer wasn't the only one who knew how to settle a score.

He was suddenly drawn out of his thoughts as his sharp eyes detected the movement of pedestrians up ahead crossing the street and heading towards them. Race tensed. Depending on what kind of people they were, this could mean trouble - there weren't too many respectable folks who would be out this late at night wandering around. Jack would likely be able to smooth-talk his way out of any incriminating questions, but all they needed was one person reporting them to the police, and they'd be sunk.

Race shook his head. Since when was he one to worry? Figuring out those things wasn't his job anymore, but clearly his short stint as interim leader had left its mark, and it probably didn't help that his closest collaborator for the past two weeks had been an anxious overthinking worry-wart like -

"Davey!" came a hushed whisper from up ahead. "Look, it's Davey and Les!"

Race felt himself relaxing instantly. Sure enough, the pedestrians came closer, and he could see that they were indeed the Jacobs brothers. Jack slowed the group to a stop, exchanged a few quick words with Davey, then continued walking. Les stayed up at the front of the group (no doubt trying to stay as close to Jack as possible), but Davey let the line pass him by, then fell into step beside Race as he'd been in the habit of doing whenever the newsies had traveled together.

"So, the kid convinced you to let him come along after all, huh?" Race observed, elbowing his friend in the arm.

Davey sighed. "Yeah, he did." He shoved his hands into his pockets. "It's a long story."

"We got time."

"It's not very interesting."

"You's always sayin' that," Race pointed out. "And each time you say it, it gets harder to believe you's tellin' the truth."

"We've got more important things to think about," Davey answered shortly, sounding a little on edge.

Race shrugged. "I'll get it outta you someday." He returned his gaze to the colossal form of _The World _building. They would be there very soon. "So, you think this is it?" he asked, changing the subject. "All that shoutin' and sweatin' and speechifyin' - it's all comin' down to tonight?"

"I hope so," Davey answered. "If this doesn't work, I'm out of ideas."

Race scoffed quietly. Davey would _never_ be out of ideas, he was sure of it, but he understood the sentiment - it was time for this to be settled.

They arrived at _The World_.

Katherine was waiting for them, and beside her, half-hidden in the shadows, were Spot and four of his Brooklyn boys. Jack circled the newsies up (with yet another reminder to keep their voices down), then greeted Spot with a spit-shake. They'd apparently made their peace (Jack had gone down to Brooklyn the day before to speak with Spot himself, and clearly whatever he'd said had convinced the stoic leader on the other side of the Bridge to allow Jack back into his good graces. Race was thankful for that - it was never advisable to be on Spot's bad side).

"My boys will keep watch outside the buildin'," Spot said, motioning to the burly newsies beside him. "They'll warn us if anyone's actin' suspicious and will hold off whoever they can until we's clear."

Jack nodded appreciatively. "Good." He turned to Katherine. "Guess we might as well get to it, then." He gave her a little bow. "Lead on, Plumber."

The former reporter took command eagerly, leading the newsies around to the side of the building where a short flight of stairs led down to what Race assumed was the entrance to the basement. At the top of the stairs, Katherine stopped, turning to Jack.

"It might be better to have some of the boys wait here until we've made sure everything's clear," she said. "I don't think Father employs a night watchman, but we'd better check anyway. If everything's fine, we'll bring the rest in."

Jack nodded. "Spot?" he asked. "Can you keep the fellas in line for a spell?" The Brooklyn leader nodded, and the newsies, Race noticed, automatically stood up a little straighter. They probably wouldn't move (or even breathe) until Jack returned. It had been a good decision to leave Spot in charge.

"Racer. Dave." Jack beckoned. "You's comin' with us."

Davey bent down to whisper some last-minute instructions to Les (probably a warning that he'd better listen to Spot _or else_), then he and Race walked over to join Katherine and Jack, and the four of them made their way down the stairs. At the bottom, Katherine pulled a ring of keys out of her handbag.

"Been pickin' Pulitzer's pocket?" Jack asked jokingly.

The woman shook her head. "This is the janitor's set of keys," she said. "He hasn't had a raise in twenty years, so it wasn't hard to convince him to look the other way while we snuck in. If there's anyone who knows the miserly nature of my father first-hand, it's him."

She unlocked the door and stepped inside, Jack and Davey following her and Race looking up to give the rest of the newsies a cocky grin and a salute before ducking inside as well. It was almost completely dark, and he abruptly stumbled into Davey, who had stopped short as he and Jack waited for Katherine to locate the light switch.

"Watch where you're going, Race," Davey muttered anxiously.

"Tryin', Dave, tryin,'" Race responded. "Relax a little, all right? Ain't no reason for you to be so jittery."

"We're breaking into one of the most powerful men in New York's headquarters where he may or may not have a guard on patrol," the other boy replied tersely. "Of _course_ there's a reason to be jittery."

"You knew we was gonna be doin' this two days ago," Race reminded him.

"Well, it's different when you're actually doing it, all right?"

"Ah, come on," Race cheerfully clapped his friend on the back. "Don't tell me you left your sense of adventure behind!"

"Didn't leave it; never had it," came the sarcastic response.

The lights flickered on and both boys both instinctively threw up their hands to shield their eyes. Once his vision had adjusted, Race slowly took a look around the room. It was fairly large and mostly vacant, but there were several filing cabinets off to one side and a few canvas-covered objects (probably furniture) clustered at the far end of the room where a tall staircase led up to a door that probably opened up to the inside of the building.

In the center of the room was a large, complicated-looking machine with gears and handles and who knew what else.

Was that really what they were going to print the papes on?

A sound was heard on the steps behind them, and Race turned to see Spot peeking his head in. "Hey," he said, "I got a couple of swells up here sayin' they know the lady. You want me to let 'em in?"

"Hey, Katherine," Race called over to the former reporter. "You expectin' some blue-blooded company?"

Her eyes lit up. "Yes I am! Perfect timing!" Jack shot her a confused look, but she missed his bewilderment completely, evidently pleased that her wealthy associates (whoever they were) had shown up to join them.

Race gave Spot a little nod, and the Brooklyn leader hurried back up the stairs. A few moments later, a pair of well-dressed gentlemen appeared in the doorway.

Katherine walked over to greet them. "Bill, Darcy," she said, taking each of them by the arm, "let me introduce you to someone." She pulled them over to where she'd left Jack. "This is Jack Kelly, the leader of the Lower Manhattan newsies and the face of the strike. Jack, these are my friends, Darcy and Bill. They're going to help us with the printing tonight." She smiled brightly, and Race, observing the encounter from his place off to the side, watched as the three young men sized each other up.

"So, you, uh, work for the papes?" Jack asked tentatively.

"Bill's father owns _The Journal_, and Darcy's father owns _The Tribune,_" Katherine supplied.

Race exchanged a surprised look with Davey. So these weren't just _any_ old upper-crusters.

"It's a pleasure to meet you, Jack," Bill said, his cheerful demeanor breaking the ice a little. "Your revolution for the rights of the newsboys has been fascinating, and I'm proud to be part of it!" He held out his hand, and Race saw Jack just barely check his well-ingrained habit of spitting before shaking. But he recovered in time and managed the exchange without incident.

"Bill was here earlier this evening typesetting the article for us," Katherine said as her friend removed his coat and hat and began rolling up his sleeves. "He's got just a few final adjustments to make. Darcy will be overseeing the printing."

The aforementioned Darcy was still eyeing Jack warily, and Race shot another look at Davey, wondering if his friend was picking up on the same signs that he was seeing. Clearly there was some kind of silent appraisal going on (Jack seemed to be returning the favor), and neither party appeared to be especially pleased at what he saw.

"This should be interesting," Davey muttered, so quietly that only Race could hear.

"You think they's fightin' over Katherine?" Race asked in an equally low voice.

"They're definitely fighting over Katherine." Davey sounded slightly annoyed.

"Go give 'em one of your lectures about how we got more important things to think about," Race whispered, giving the dark-haired boy a nudge. "The longer we stand here, the bigger chance that guard you's worried about is gonna find out we's here."

Davey looked like he sorely wanted to follow the suggestion, but before he could do anything about it, they saw Jack grin disarmingly before deliberately spitting in his hand and offering it to Darcy.

"Good to meet ya, Darcy," he said affably (and if Race hadn't known him better, he would have completely missed the gleam in the newsie leader's eye). "Any friend of Plumber's is a friend of mine, and it's real nice of you to come down here to help us out. Real nice."

The look of utter repulsion on Darcy's face would have made a man less sure of himself retract the gesture, but Jack didn't even flinch. He left his hand extended for several seconds, his grin growing wider and smugger the longer Darcy hesitated. Finally, Jack pointedly drew his hand back. "Sorry," he smirked, his tone indicating that he was anything but. He wiped his hand on his trousers and re-offered it to Darcy, who reluctantly shook it this time.

Katherine, oblivious to the wordless jockeying taking place, beamed. "Oh, and Darcy, Bill - these are Jack's partners in the strike effort," she added. "This is Race, and next to him is Davey."

Everyone politely nodded their hellos, clearly in agreement that it would be best to avoid handshaking of any kind at this point. Race was slightly amused at the unexpected turn of events, but he could tell that Davey was ready for the introductions to be over with so that they could get down to business.

"How does the printing press look, Darcy?" Katherine asked as her friend gave it a methodical examination. "It seems like it's been down here for a while."

Darcy nodded. "I could see why they've sent this old girl out to pasture, but she looks like she's got some life in her yet." He knelt down and fiddled with a few components of the machine before straightening up and declaring, "With a little grease, I think she'll do the job."

"Excellent!" Katherine clapped her hands. She looked at Jack. "Well...what do you think? Is it time to get this show on the road?"

Jack nodded. "You bet. We got a lot of printin' to do if we's gonna be spreadin' this pape to every workin' kid in New York." He looked over at Davey and Race.

"Fellas, I'm gonna have you handlin' the paper bundlin' and distribution. You figure out where to send the boys and how many papes they's gonna need and then send 'em, all right? Spot's boys are gonna take Brooklyn, so you don't haf'ta worry about that, but we gotta cover everywhere else."

"We'll need to think about timing," Davey said, immediately jumping into the logistics of the matter. "Some of the smaller shops and workplaces won't be open yet, so we should probably start at the bigger factories, or maybe at the docks, places where the employees usually get an early start."

"You work on that and I'll handle groupin' up the boys," Race said. "We's gonna need to have the fastest ones take the furthest locations so they don't get back too late."

"While you's figurin' that out, let's let the boys in so they can help with the printin'," Jack said. "It's gonna be all hands on deck 'till this thing's over."

Race nodded, feeling his excitement grow as he hurried back towards the stairs to signal Spot and the newsies. Just as he'd expected, when he peeked outside he saw that the newsies were indeed waiting, silent and still in an orderly group, Spot standing in front of them with his arms crossed.

"Hey!" Race whispered. "Jacky says it's all clear!"

Spot nodded, jerking his head in the direction of the door, and the newsies hurriedly scrambled towards the stairs, almost tripping over each other in their eagerness to get in on the action (and probably to be out from under the scrutinizing eye of the Brooklyn leader as well).

Race grinned, calling out a warning to those inside as the small army of newsies thundered down the stairs and burst into the basement.

"Heeeere they come!"


	48. United

**Disclaimer: **This is a non-commercial work of fanfiction. Anything recognizable from _Newsies_ belongs to Disney and not to me.

* * *

Chapter 48: United

Davey felt the no longer unfamiliar rush of anticipation course through his veins as he took in the frenzy of activity going on around him. He'd been nervous at first, sure that they were going to be discovered or that there would be some kind of insurmountable snag in their carefully-laid plan, but as things continued to progress without incident, he found himself slowly setting aside his fear as a growing excitement took its place.

Once the rest of the group had joined them in the cellar, Darcy had given everyone some quick instructions on how they could assist with the printing, and then they'd gotten to it, every newsie setting about his task with a singular concentration not commonly seen in a band of brothers that was more apt to joke and goof off than to pay attention. Even Les was focused, executing his part in the process with the alacrity of a nine-year-old happy to be in the company of his older friends and thrilled to be staying up past his bedtime. Davey had to admit that his brother had been on his best behavior, and even though it was likely the younger boy's energy would flag by the end of the night, at the moment it was actually helpful to have an additional set of hands.

An excited commotion was heard, and Davey snapped out of his rumination to see that the first copy of _The_ _Newsies Banner_ had been printed. The boys were passing it around, handling it almost reverently, and the looks of disbelief and awe on their faces reminded Davey of that fateful afternoon nearly two weeks ago when _another_ paper had exchanged hands and hope had begun to rise, the kind of hope that since then had nearly been extinguished on multiple occasions but somehow had managed to survive to this moment where it was growing into something stronger and even more powerful than before.

_The Newsies Banner_ was pressed into his hands, and Davey only allowed himself a brief glance before he passed it off to Katherine...but he knew that he would remember the thrill of seeing their paper in print and holding it in his hands for a very long time.

Things seemed to move even more quickly after that. Katherine read a short excerpt from the _Banner_, then, with an admonition from Jack, departed on her errand to appeal to Governor Roosevelt as the newsies continued to print off copies for distribution. Davey soon became busy with the task of bundling the papers, working alongside Race and Spot. Before long, they had a sizable stack of papers packaged and ready to go.

"Time to start sendin' the fellas out," Jack declared.

Spot held up his hand. "Wait," he said. He shot a look at Darcy, who immediately stopped the printing press. "Circle up," Spot commanded. Everyone hurriedly did as he said.

"I know we gotta be quick tonight," the Brooklyn leader began, giving a little nod of acknowledgement in Jack's direction, "but we don't haf'ta rush." He looked deliberately around the circle of newsies, locking eyes with each one of them. "We's standin' on the edge of somethin' big tonight, and I don't want us missin' that just 'cause we's trippin' over our own feet tryin' to get these papes out. So before we split up and go our separate ways tonight, I want us to do somethin.'"

Davey curiously wondered Spot had in mind. He'd never heard the Brooklyn leader say so much in one breath, and though the look of focused intensity had never left Spot's face, there was something in his tone that sounded almost...sentimental. But that was ridiculous, right?

_People can surprise you,_ _remember? Isn't that what you've been learning this whole time?_

"This strike ain't just about us," Spot continued as Davey and the others listened intently. "We's doin' this for ourselves, but we's also doin' it for others. It's easy to forget that sometimes, that we ain't the only ones in this fight. We got brothers and sisters, families and friends out there too, some by blood and some not, but they's all a part of this along with us." His deliberate gaze swept around the circle of newsies again. "I want us to remember them tonight, so that when we's out there runnin' these papes, we remember that we's runnin' for them, too."

Spot's voice took on its commanding tone. "I know you all probably got a name or two in mind already," he said briskly. "So say it! - loud and clear. Speak it out so the rest of us know who we's runnin' for tonight."

For a moment, it was silent. Then Henry spoke up.

"For the trolley workers," he said. "For the folks who've gone on strike before us." He paused, then added in a choked voice, "and for my brother, who didn't get to finish his fight."

Race put a comforting hand on Henry's shoulder. "For the kids slavin' away in factories who can barely afford the shoes on their feet," he stated, a determined look in his eye.

"For my ma, who's doin' the work of three but only gettin' paid for the work of one," added Specs, the intensity in his voice building on the others' declarations.

Davey found his heart stirred in a way that he couldn't describe as the newsies continued to speak out, the weight of the moment growing as Spot's assertion became vividly, achingly real. There were names and faces and stories behind each of the boys present in the room, names and faces and stories that were rarely spoken of...but carried always.

Winning this strike was about far more than just the newsboys.

"For the kids on the streets always beggin' after hours 'cause they don't get paid enough to even eat."

"For my cousin, who lost his hand workin' in the mines and got tossed to the curb."

"For our dad," Les piped up, looking at Davey who gave him a proud smile.

"For our dad," he agreed. "And for everyone who's ever been denied a voice or a vote."

The rest of the newsies continued to speak, some in words heavy with emotion, others in proud and defiant assertions, until finally Jack was the only one left.

"For Crutchie," the newsie leader said simply, and Davey could see the tears in his eyes. The rest of the newsies nodded. "For Crutchie," they echoed.

"Right," Spot said curtly, his own expression settling once more into its look of menacing determination. He gave Jack a nod, ceding control, and the Manhattan leader assumed command.

"All right fellas," he said, swiping a hand across his eyes. "So here's how it's gonna work." He paused for a moment, gathering himself, then continued. "Racer is gonna be splittin' you up into pairs, and he'll tell you where you's gonna be headed. Davey'll dole out the papes, make sure you got enough for where you's gonna go. Like Spot said, we gotta be quick, but we don't haf'ta rush - be smart about it, all right? You don't haf'ta personally hand a pape to every workin' kid in New York - target the older ones first. Give 'em a stack of papes, and have 'em pass out the rest to the others. Make sure the ones you give papes to knows how to read - if you can't find anyone who can, then you stay and read it to 'em, make sure they understand, all right?"

The newsies chorused their agreement.

"Make sure you watch out for the bulls," Race reminded them.

"And remember that we're meeting back at the lodging house afterwards," Davey added.

Jack gave them a grateful nod. "All right," he said, rubbing his hands together in anticipation as he addressed the newsies. "Any questions?"

There were none. Davey could feel the energy surging through the room, the collective strength of a ragged but proud militia who had received its marching orders and was eager now to go out and fight.

Pulitzer had started this war thinking that the response would be abject surrender, but he hadn't realized whom he was going up against. He'd thrown the weight of his wealth and his empire against the newsies, but somehow they'd managed to hold on, and the newspaper owner would soon be forced to listen to them and to finally play fair. The newsies had been down for too long. It was time to rise up and to take their place at the table.

Change was near at hand.

* * *

After dismissing the newsies to start receiving their assignments from Race and their allotment of papers from Davey, Jack stepped aside for a moment to collect himself. The recollection of Crutchie had caused the weight of guilt to resurface, and Jack fought that feeling now even as it pressed down upon him with heavy familiarity.

He felt isolated, alone in his culpability. It was his fault that Crutchie was in The Refuge. He should have taken better care of his brother. He should have taken better care of them all.

If the newsies succeeded tonight, though, the strike would be over, and they could focus on figuring out how to get Crutchie out of The Refuge. He'd been in there long enough, and Jack was willing to bet that he wasn't the only one who hadn't gotten a good night's rest ever since Cruthie's arrest.

There was good reason to be concerned. The Refuge could crush even the most hearty of boys, and while Crutchie was undoubtedly strong (even taking his leg into account), he'd always been prone to get sick easier than the rest. Fortunately, it wasn't wintertime, so he wouldn't be contending against the illnesses that seemed to spread quicker than Buttons' fleas in the summer months.

Even so, there were other ways a boy could break down.

Crutchie had been in The Refuge before. Jack didn't know the details - and, like Race, Crutchie hadn't wanted to talk about it - but strangely, Crutchie seemed to have dealt with his experience in a way where the specter of his time there no longer haunted him. And that was no small feat. Jack had never been able to completely disengage from his traumatic experience, and Race, it seemed, was still dealing with demons of his own from the past. But while Crutchie had always made it clear that he never wanted to go back to The Refuge, his memories of the place didn't seem to hold the same power over him as they did over the rest. Jack had always been a little envious of that...but now he was grateful. There was something in his friend - some kind of defiant strength - that set him apart, and Jack hoped that this strength was sustaining Crutchie now as he waited.

_You ain't gonna be waitin' much longer, Crutchie, _Jack promised silently. _We's gonna finish this, and then we's gonna find a way to get you out. _

A hand landed suddenly on Jack's shoulder, and he jumped.

"Sorry," Davey apologized. "I just wanted to make sure you were all right."

Jack looked around the room and realized, to his surprise, that it was nearly empty - most of the newsies had already set out on their assignments. Race was giving some final instructions to the last two, Specs and Elmer, but other than that, it was only the three of them left in the cellar.

(Oh, and of course those two hoity-toity friends of Katherine's. That Bill fellow didn't seem so bad, but Jack didn't much like Darcy).

"Just tryin' to take it all in, ya know?" he muttered, hoping the vague explanation would satisfy Davey. He didn't realize he'd been brooding for so long and that everything had already been taken care of. He shouldn't have been surprised though; the newsies had been operating without him ever since he'd abandoned them at the brawl.

Did they really even need him anymore?

"You sure you're all right?" Davey questioned again, no doubt catching the dark look that had crossed Jack's face.

"Yeah." Jack shook the other boy's hand off roughly. He didn't want to talk about it.

"If you're sure," Davey responded, sounding like he didn't believe it but wasn't going to pry. He began to back away, but suddenly he stopped and glanced once more in Jack's direction. "It's good to have you back," he said simply. Then he turned and walked away.

Jack blinked.

"Shaddup," he muttered, though he knew the other newsie was too far away to hear at that point. He didn't know if Davey was a mind-reader or just a huge sap, but the affirming words _had_ made Jack feel a little better.

He needed to snap out of it, anyway. The boys were out running the papes, and he needed to join them. Walking over to where Race and Davey were divvying up the remaining copies of _The Newsies Banner, _Jack held out his hands for his portion. It had been decided that he and the other two leaders would help with the distribution, but that they would stay relatively close by so that they could be the first ones back to the lodging house. They needed to be available to organize both their own contingent and to run over to Newsie Square (where the city-wide protest would take place) to receive any visiting groups. With any luck, the response would be so great that in time it wouldn't be necessary to direct their allies on where to go - they would be able to see it with their own eyes.

A stack of papers was pressed into his hands. "Ya good on where you're goin', Jacky?" Race asked.

Jack nodded. "I'll see you fellas back at the lodging house. Don't get caught, all right?"

Davey nodded, looking a little worried, and Race gave his characteristic grunt of acknowledgement. Satisfied, Jack tucked his stack of papers under his arm and turned to leave. On his way to the door, he caught sight of Darcy and Bill, who were cleaning the printing press.

"Hey, thanks for joinin' us tonight," Jack said, trying his best to be civil. The newsies really couldn't have pulled off their scheme without the assistance of Katherine's friends, and even though Jack didn't like them, he would try to treat them with respect.

"It was a pleasure," Bill said affably. "New York's going to have a surprise waiting for her when she wakes up tomorrow, that's for sure!"

"We'd do anything to help Katherine," Darcy added (rather unnecessarily, Jack thought). "She's a close friend of ours."

"Seems so," Jack agreed. "Seems so." He paused. "Funny, though, that she's never mentioned you before, seein' as you's such good friends and all."

"You probably haven't known her long enough for it to have come up in conversation," Darcy said flatly.

Jack shrugged. "Maybe."

Darcy didn't say anything more, but the look he gave Jack made it clear that he was irked by the ambivalent response.

The newsie leader heard a muffled yelp behind him, and he turned around just in time to catch Race elbowing Davey in the ribs. Both newsies wore looks of slightly guilty amusement, and Jack scowled at them, displeased that they'd witnessed his jockeying with Darcy.

"Hey, what are you two standin' around for?" he demanded. "Time's wastin'!" He gestured towards the door.

"We was just leavin'," Race responded. "Come on, Dave." He led the way to the exit, smirking at Jack as he passed. Davey didn't say anything, but he had a knowing look in his eye, and Jack made a mental note that should either of his lieutenants _ever_ happen to lose his head over a girl, he'd make sure to pay them back tenfold. He had enough on his mind right now between trying to finish the strike and hanging on to Katherine (an objective that had suddenly become more pressing with the upstart Darcy's appearance) without having to deal with teasing from his subordinates.

"Well, I'll be headin' out too," Jack said, adjusting his cap on his head as he addressed Darcy and Bill. "You fellas good with lockin' up before you leave? Kath left the keys on the table and she said we can drop 'em in the mail slot out front after we's done."

Darcy didn't say anything, but Bill nodded. "We'll make sure everything's secure," he promised. "Goodnight, Jack. And good luck."

"Thanks - I'll take it." Jack shot a cocky grin in their direction, then turned and headed for the stairs. As he exited the cellar and climbed up the steps to the street, the last one to deploy on his mission, he felt a sense of pride, knowing that everywhere throughout the city his boys were spreading the word that - if all went well - would bring the entire city of New York to a standstill.

In just a few hours, they would end this. Jack could feel it in his bones as surely as he could feel the tingling chill of winter approaching when the first cold-snap was still days away from settling in.

The final showdown was coming. It was already here.

As Jack made his way purposefully down the street, he gave _The World's_ headquarters one last look. The imposing building with its massive dome was still cloaked in darkness, but soon enough the faintest streaks of dawn would begin to illuminate its proud exterior, and by the time the sun had fully risen, the newsies would be back, hundreds strong with the rest of the city's' working kids behind them. They would be united. And they would be unstoppable.

Jack gave a mocking salute in the direction of Pulitzer's office as he turned away.

_I'll see ya soon, Joe,_ he promised.

* * *

**A/N:** In case any of you fansies were wondering, yes, Spot's speech was meant to be a nod to Tommy Bracco's pre-show pep talks. I also wanted to give the character some more speaking time, since we don't get to hear much from him in the musical itself.

Thanks for reading this chapter - it's definitely got a much more low-key feel to it than "Once and For All," and I'm not sure if it works or not, but I wrote, and this was what came out. These newsies have been on strike for almost two weeks, and they're pushing through, but they're a little more tired and maybe a little more emotionally drained (though no less determined) than their canon-counterparts in the musical whose strike was only a few days long-ish (and I mean, let's be real - how can one capture in words the raw exhilaration that is the "Once and For All" key change? Answer: One can't. So one doesn't).

If you read this chapter and enjoyed it (or even if you didn't, 'cause that's fair too), please leave me a review and let me know what you thought of my alternate version of this scene. Your feedback means a lot.

Also, for those of you who would be interested, I've posted a "missing scene" featuring Darcy and Bill in my one-shot collection (Interstices) that narratively takes place immediately after this chapter. Please check it out if you'd like, and let me know what you think! Special thanks to the guest reviewer (Chapter 46) and to ChibiDawn23 who expressed interest in seeing more of these characters :)


	49. On Top of The World

**Disclaimer: **This is a non-commercial work of fanfiction. Anything recognizable from _Newsies_ belongs to Disney and not to me.

* * *

Chapter 49: On Top of _The World_

Joseph Pulitzer sat behind his desk, coiled up like a snake in its den. His eyes narrowed into slits, and Davey fought the urge to look away as the newspaper owner's cold gaze swept past him before settling on Jack, who returned the stare with what appeared to be equal parts defiance and disdain.

They'd burst into Pulitzer's office only moments ago, brushing past all who'd tried to stop them, and had abruptly interrupted the man in the middle of a meeting with his secretary and bookkeeper. As soon as he'd caught sight of Jack, his expression had darkened, and he'd brusquely waved off his staff before turning his full attention to the newsie leader in front of him, poised and ready for the final showdown.

"So, Mr. Kelly," Pulitzer folded his hands, resting them on the desk, "it seems that you've reneged on our deal. I should have known that you'd _fail_ to hold up your end of the bargain." Davey could hear the anger in the man's tone, and he felt his shoulders tensing even as he saw Spot shift beside him. They had Pulitzer backed into a corner...but that didn't mean he couldn't lash out.

"I thought the better of our little agreement, Joe," Jack shrugged, pulling a stack of bills from his pocket and tossing it onto the desk where it landed with a dull thump. "I'm a man of my word, though, so there's your money back - not a dollar missin.'" He gestured to Pulitzer's bookkeeper. "Feel free to count it, if ya want."

The balding man shot a glance at his boss, who gave him a curt nod. Then it was silent for a moment as the bookkeeper quickly thumbed through the stack before quietly confirming that the money was, indeed, all accounted for.

Pulitzer seemed displeased at this.

"And what, exactly, do you hope to accomplish by pulling this little stunt?" he asked indignantly.

"Oh, see, I wouldn't call it a stunt, Joe," Jack objected. "I dunno if you happened to look outside your window this mornin' or not, but if you did, you would've seen a crowd of workin' kids stretchin' on for blocks and blocks, protestin' right outside your front door. And then you'd realize that we's dead serious about this, Joe - it ain't no game we's playin' at here."

Reaching into his vest pocket, Jack pulled out several folded-up copies of _The Newsies Banner_. "If you wanna see what was circulatin' through the city overnight while you was countin' sheep, here's a look." He handed a copy to Pulitzer, who snatched it without a word, scowling as he raised his spectacles to his eyes.

"Don't be shy, gents!" Jack exclaimed, affably offering copies to Pulitzer's associates as well. "There's more than enough here to go around." Having discharged all three of the available papers, he stuck his hands in his pockets, grinning at Davey and Spot with a look that clearly said he was enjoying this visit to Pulitzer's office far more than his previous venture.

"This isn't half bad!" one of the men exclaimed as he scanned through _The Newsies Banner_. His enthusiasm was immediately quelled as Pulitzer glared sharply at him.

"No doubt my daughter's handiwork," he said, clearly irked. "I _demand_ to know who allowed this paper to be printed!" His eyes swept around the room, clearly suspecting a traitor amongst his staff, but all of them appeared to be completely confused. "Didn't I make it crystal _clear_ that there was a ban on printing strike material?" Pulitzer demanded. He slammed his hand down hard on the desk.

Everyone jumped a little.

"That might've been the case, Joe," Jack answered, recovering quickly. "But seein' as you don't make it a habit of sharin' your plans with little guys like us, we can't be expected to read your mind now, can we?"

Pulitzer said nothing.

"But since you's wantin' an answer," Jack continued, sauntering closer to the newspaper owner's desk, "I can tell ya that we printed our papes on the one printin' press I knew how to get to." He paused, letting the unspoken question hang. "You remember our last meetin', Joe, and that 'little stunt' you pulled lockin' me in your cellar, huh? Well it turns out, you got an old printin' press down there that still works. So I guess I oughta thank you for that helpful piece of information - it sure came in handy. Hey!" he smirked. "How's this sound for a headline: 'Pulitzer's Very Own Printin' Press Brings Him Down.'" Jack chuckled. "Pretty good, huh?"

_Careful, Jack, _Davey thought anxiously. It was one thing to tell it to the newspaper owner straight; it was another thing to purposefully antagonize him, and while Jack's gloating - especially considering all that he'd gone through at Pulitzer's hands - was completely understandable, they were still up against an enemy that they couldn't afford to underestimate.

Pulitzer finally uncoiled himself and rose, walking deliberately around his desk to stand nose-to-nose with Jack.

"I offered you a more-than-generous deal, boy," he growled, his voice low and menacing. "A pardon for your criminal offenses. Enough money to have a fresh start. The prospect of a life off of the streets! In throwing that away, you've consigned yourself to a fate of worthless obscurity!" His eyes narrowed and his voice dropped, though it lost none of its venom. "You might have your ten minutes of fame now, Mr. Kelly. But once the strike's over, who will you be then? The same worthless, dirty _gutter-rat_ that you were before this all began!"

Jack didn't respond to the newspaper owner's rancor, but Davey saw his jaw clench in anger, and the sudden gleam in Pulitzer's eye made it clear that he had seen it too.

The older man began circling the newsie leader now, his voice modulating just slightly. "Oh, maybe that doesn't mean much to you right now," he allowed. "All you've known is a life of abject poverty, after all. And that's all well and good when you're only looking out for yourself and for that rag-tag group of ragamuffins." He stopped circling and came to a stop in front of Jack. "But what of the future?" he asked quietly. "What of life _outside_ of the newsboys? I know they're not the only ones you care about." He let the insinuation hang, its implication becoming clear as he added, "You may have your family, boy...but don't think for a moment that you can have _mine_."

Jack swallowed hard. "Katherine ain't - "

"Katherine _ain't_ as simple and naive as you take her for," Pulitzer interrupted mockingly. "She may have taken a passing fancy to you with this strike business giving her career the boost she was looking for...but she'll soon realize that your blustering charisma and short-lived fame can't hide the unfortunate reality that you're _absolutely unfit_ for her, and that there are others far more well-resourced to give her the life that she deserves." He smiled. "You've no money, Jack. No ambition. No prospects of ever amounting to anything." The smile was accompanied by a condescending shake of the head. "It's _really_ too bad."

Davey's alarm grew as he watched Jack's composure begin to unravel at Pulitzer's scornful words. The balance of power in the room was beginning to shift towards the newspaper owner, and while the newsboys still had the upper hand, Jack was going to have a difficult time negotiating with Pulitzer if he let the man get to his head. It had been an unsportsmanlike move, bringing up Katherine like that...but then again, the rules had never been fair in this game that they were playing. They should have known better. They had let their guard down, and the snake had struck.

_Say something! _Davey told himself frantically. He had to distract Pulitzer, to get his attention off of Jack so that the newsie leader could recover.

"What's all that got to do with anything?" he blurted out. He knew what Pulitzer was trying to do, but a little feigned ignorance could buy Jack some time, and besides, they really _ought_ to get back to discussing the strike (if there was one thing that Davey had very little patience for, it was going down mostly-irrelevant rabbit trails while leaving the pressing questions unanswered).

Pulitzer looked at him in surprise, as though he was registering his presence for the very first time.

"You talk about the future," Davey continued, his voice wavering nervously, "but you aren't even acknowledging what's unfolding right in front of your eyes. Ever since the strike began, your circulation's been down, and if this continues, you're going to feel it soon - today, even! The entire city is at a standstill, and until you agree to negotiate with us, we'll just keep gathering support until you can't ignore us anymore. So if _you_ care about the future, Mr. Pulitzer - the future of your newspaper, if nothing else - you ought to be listening to Jack instead of trying to bait him. You might not think that you need us, but the fact is, _you do_! It would be foolish for you not to act in your own self-interest - "

"And it would be ill-advised for _you_ to keep running your mouth," Pulitzer cut in, giving Davey a disdainful look. "I did not agree to discuss this in a committee."

"Well, you's gonna have to discuss it with me, then," Jack said, having gathered himself enough to re-assume control of the situation. "Davey's right - you ain't seein' the truth of what's goin' on here. Maybe you think big-shots like you don't haf'ta talk with little guys like us…" he gestured to the window, "...but in case you forgot, just have a peek out there. You's gonna see we got you surrounded."

Pulitzer stalked over to the largest window and looked out of it.

"A beautiful sight, ain't it, Mr. Pulitzer?" Spot intoned, grinning wolfishly. "Nothin' but the First Amendment freedom to assemble, as far as the eye can see."

The newspaper owner turned away from the window.

"You might think that ain't bad enough," Jack conceded, cocking his head in Pulitzer's direction, "but just wait 'till all the leaders of this city start poundin' on your door, blamin' you because they can't send a message or ride an elevator or cross the Brooklyn Bridge." He smirked. "Sure wouldn't want to be in your shoes then."

"It's true," the secretary interjected. "They've been calling all morning, everyone in high dudgeon and using such _atrocious_ language!" Pulitzer glared at her, and she fell silent, but before anything more could be discussed, a commotion was heard in the hallway.

Suddenly the doors to the office burst open, and in walked -

"Governor Roosevelt?" the newspaper owner growled.

It was, indeed, the governor, flanked by Miss Medda and Katherine (who had clearly been successful in her quest to bring the powerful politician to the newsies' aid). Jack watched as the three of them entered the room, an unmistakable look of pride in his eyes as Katherine gave him a determined smile, and Davey felt himself relaxing a little as he observed their exchange. After Pulitzer's belittling jabs, Jack could use some reassurance just then, and Katherine's presence would likely put things to rights.

"Joseph, what's all this about?" Governor Roosevelt asked indulgently, as though he was questioning a small child about the disorderly state of his playpen. "It seems that you've made quite a mess of things!"

"There's a reasonable explanation for all of this," Pulitzer blustered.

"Reasonable?" The governor barked a laugh. "Is that what you'd call it, Joseph? Reasonable?" He motioned to the ladies beside him. "Thanks to these two bringing the situation to my attention, I can easily say that I disagree with you on that assessment. In fact," he motioned to Katherine, who handed him an artist's roll, "I have in my hands here some graphic illustrations to support my suspicions that you've been nothing but a bully these past two weeks, and that you've been in league with a few rather questionable characters!"

Pulitzer took the roll that was offered to him with barely-concealed irritation. As he opened up the container to view its contents, Roosevelt sauntered over to where Jack was standing.

"And I suppose you're the boy Katherine was telling me about - Jack, is it?"

Jack nodded, straightening up. "A pleasure, Governor Roosevelt." They shook hands, and if Jack had been any more star-struck, Davey had no doubt that he would have forgotten about the entire business of negotiating with Pulitzer altogether.

Things were definitely looking up.

"Well, Joseph," Roosevelt continued, returning to business, "what do you have to say to all this? Perhaps you've come to your senses now after seeing those drawings and knowing that I'm well aware you've colluded with the man responsible for such inexcusable neglect in order to stamp out the newsboys' protest?" His voice became a bit more threatening as he added, "Rest assured that Mr. Snyder will be undergoing a thorough investigation, and I'd be happy to take a look at your employment practices as well while I'm at it, if that seems more agreeable to you than coming to a compromise with these young men."

Pulitzer's eyes narrowed, but there wasn't much he could say to that.

"I refuse to discuss this in a committee," he repeated coldly. "But I will speak to Mr. Kelly. _Alone._"

The secretary immediately motioned for everyone to leave (though Davey caught the smile she gave Jack before she swept by), and the rest of Pulitzer's staff scurried from the room, followed by Miss Medda and Spot, who exited at a much more dignified pace. The governor paused for a moment to quietly say a few words to Jack before heading towards the door as well.

"Are you coming, Davey?" Katherine asked.

He shot a hesitant look in Jack's direction. After seeing how easily Pulitzer had discomposed the newsie leader earlier in the conversation, the last thing Davey wanted to do was leave Jack to face him alone.

"He'll be fine," Katherine whispered impatiently, sensing Davey's hesitation. "You have to let him do this."

Perhaps she was aware of the venom that her father was capable of unleashing...but she hadn't been there to see it loosed against Jack. Davey had, even if only for a passing moment, and he couldn't bring himself to move.

Katherine gave a barely-audible sigh of irritation, which Jack heard. He glanced over at them and seemed to take in the situation instantly.

"I'll be fine, Dave," he said quietly. "I got this."

The firmness in his voice didn't match the apprehension in his eyes, and Davey was about to insist on staying in the room no matter what Pulitzer or Katherine or anyone else said, when Jack gave him a look. It was an imploring look, and look that clearly said he didn't want to do this alone, but that he knew that he had to.

So Davey reluctantly turned around and let Katherine propel him out of the room.

* * *

As soon as the office doors closed behind Katherine and the unwillingly Davey, Jack turned his attention to the newspaper owner.

"You must understand that I cannot put the prices back to where they were," Pulitzer said stiffly. "There's too much at stake."

"Oh, I get that you ain't wantin' to go back on your word in front of folks," Jack allowed. "You got your pride to think about and all that." His eyes narrowed, and he took a step closer to Pulitzer. "But in case you forgot, there's a lot at stake for us newsies, too, and I ain't leavin' this office until you listen to our demands."

"I'll reduce the raise by half," Pulitzer offered quickly. "If I do, the other papers will follow suit -"

Jack shook his head. "Ain't good enough, Joe. You'd still be makin' money off of us. If you ain't gonna roll the price back to where it was, you's gonna have to give us somethin' else in return."

"Like what?" Pulitzer snapped.

"Like newspaper buybacks," Jack countered. "Any pape we don't sell you buy back at the end of the day, full price! Oh sure," he continued, holding up his hand before Pulitzer could object, "maybe you'll lose a little money here and there if the boys have a pape or two at the end of the day they can't move...but more than likely you's gonna be _growin'_ your circulation, 'cause if a newsie can take a few more papers each day with no risk, he might actually sell them - and that's just more money in your pocket, Joe." He paused to let the idea sink in.

Pulitzer stared at him warily for a moment. "That's not a bad idea," he admitted finally, a tiny note of respect in his voice that Jack had never heard before. The expression on the newspaper owner's face had changed; he knew that he was beat, and he was cunning enough to realize that he should come to a compromise before he lost any further ground. It wasn't an expression of defeated surrender by any means - but it was a concession that he'd been bested for that round.

And Jack would take it.

"So...we got a deal then?" he asked.

Pulitzer gave a curt nod, and Jack spat in his palm before holding it out to the older man.

The newspaper owner grimaced. "That's disgusting!" he exclaimed.

Jack didn't withdraw his hand. "You's shakin' with the president of the newsboy union, Joe," he said firmly, "and that's how we do business. Take it or leave it, but this deal ain't final 'till we do."

Pulitzer locked eyes with him for a moment, and Jack found himself once more under the man's piercing appraisal. He had a sneaking suspicion that this wouldn't be the only time they'd drive a hard bargain.

"_Keep your eyes on the stars and your feet on the ground_," Roosevelt had admonished, and Jack found that exhortation to be oddly fitting as he watched something he never thought he'd see unfold before his eyes - Pulitzer spitting in his own hand and shaking with Jack, acknowledging their standing as equals - at least in the moment.

They certainly weren't friends - they weren't even allies. But they'd come to an agreement, and Jack was confident that the future ahead would be better for all parties involved. The strike had been a daring act of defiance, and there had been moments where he'd been almost certain they'd never come out on top, but somehow the newsies had managed to see it through…

And now at long last, it was finally over.

* * *

**A/N**: The strike may be over...but this story's definitely not! There are still several plot threads that need to be addressed, a few minor characters who've just hung around with no apparent purpose (yet), and I do believe I promised a you all romance subplot (I promise, I haven't forgotten!), so I hope you'll stick around for a while as I attempt bring this overly-ambitious story to a satisfying conclusion. :)

One of the deviations from canon that I wrote into this particular scene was Pulitzer's use of Katherine as a way of getting at Jack's insecurities (this tactic is employed in a slightly different way during their previous encounter when Katherine's secret identity is revealed). This dynamic will be important later on in the narrative as the relationships between these three characters is further explored. Thank you for reading this installment - please let me know what you thought of it!


	50. Victory

**Disclaimer: **This is a non-commercial work of fanfiction. Anything recognizable from _Newsies_ belongs to Disney and not to me.

* * *

Chapter 50: Victory

"Davey," Katherine said shortly, "if you don't stop moving _right now_, I'm going to call over some of the boys to sit on you. I know that you're worried about Jack, but this pacing isn't helping anyone."

Race smirked to himself as Davey gave the former reporter an irritated look before he obediently ceased his restless movement, crossing his arms over his chest instead and looking out of sorts as he struggled to find some other way to express his anxious energy.

Katherine strode over to where Race had hunkered down with his back against the wall, idly observing the scene as he fiddled with his unlit cigar.

"Race," she commanded. "Go talk to him." Then she walked off.

And that was when Race knew that she was nervous, too.

Obligingly, he stuck his cigar into his pocket, got to his feet, and sauntered over to where Davey was standing, staring up at the dome of _The World_. "What're you so worried about, Dave?" Race asked, deciding to cut to the chase. "You's about to drive Katherine batty."

"I can't help it," Davey answered tersely. "Last time I let Jack face Pulitzer alone was when he ended up getting forced into that deal to speak against the strike and betray us. Pulitzer almost got into his head again when we were up there earlier. I just feel like the first time was my fault - I should have gone with Jack, or stopped him, or something. I don't want anything to happen to him again."

"Weren't nothin' you could've done," Race remarked sensibly. "Jacky-boy's always kept his own counsel and done what seems best to him."

"But I should have - "

"Stow the seriosity, Dave," Race interrupted. "Save it for when somethin' bad actually happens, all right?"

Davey frowned. "If we all adopted a reactionary stance to things rather than a precautionary one, the world would be in trouble," he retorted, anxiety making his incisiveness more biting than normal.

"_The World is_ in trouble," Race quipped. "I bet'cha anything Jacky's got Pulitzer on the ropes right now."

Davey said nothing, clearly not in the mood for puns and determined that no amount of optimism would deny him his right to be vexed.

Race shrugged, then walked off. He'd tried.

Up and down Park Row, everywhere he looked, there were newsies - newsies from his own contingent, newsies from other boroughs, familiar faces and faces that were unknown to him. Some were actively protesting outside of _The World,_ voices and signs and banners raised. Others stood by quietly, clustered in small groups slightly away from the action as they waited for an update on the negotiations taking place. Still others had opted to find ways to amuse themselves as they passed the time.

Sniper and Finch had just begun a game of marbles, and several other boys were crowding around to watch. Les, who had somehow managed to talk his way out of attending school that day to be present at the protest, ran over to join them, and Race shot a look over his shoulder at Davey, remembering the lighthearted banter that had taken place between himself and the newest newsie on the day of Davey's initiation into the lodging house. It had come up then that the dark-haired boy was a proficient player of marbles, and Race had been wanting to challenge him to a game ever since then.

Now, however, was probably not the time to call next.

Race bypassed the small circle of newsies crowded around the just-formed marbles match and continued walking. He caught sight of a few other boys from the Manhattan lodging house sitting on a small patch of lawn, huddled around a deck of cards. Artie the ex-scab, who was on the fringes of the group, waved him over.

"You gonna get in on this, Race?" he called. "The fellas say you's the one to beat around here."

Race gave the poker game a longing glance. Elmer, Buttons, Romeo, Mush - he knew he'd have an edge if he decided to join in, regardless of the hand that he was dealt - none of the younger boys were any good at bluffing, and Mush had a terrible poker face - but with Jack gone to negotiate with Pulizter and the conclusion of the strike still up in the air, the responsible thing to do would be to stay uninvolved for now.

"Wish I could," Race answered regretfully. "But I'm gonna pass."

The other newsies looked surprised. "You never pass on poker, Race!" Elmer exclaimed. "You feelin' all right?"

"Hey, let him be, Elm!" Romeo admonished. "It's better for us if Racer ain't playin' - you know he always wins."

"That's true," Mush conceded.

"And don't you bummers forget it," Race muttered, pulling out his cigar and forcing himself to turn and walk away before the growing temptation to throw duty out the door got the better of him. To his surprise, Artie jumped to his feet and followed.

"You feelin' good about the outcome of the strike, Race?" he asked conversationally. "Think Pulitzer's gonna finally back down?"

"That's the hope." Race's fingers twitched. He wanted to light his cigar, but he knew that if Artie was going to be in a chatty mood, there was little chance of being able to smoke in peace. He tucked the roll of tobacco back into his pocket. "You still glad you joined up with us, seein' how it's all played out?" he asked the other newsie.

"Think so," Artie answered. He inclined his head in the direction of the poker game they'd just left. "Seems like a good group of fellas. Wouldn't mind gettin' back to sellin' soon though - I sure could use the money."

"Ain't that the truth," Race sighed. They ambled along in silence for a moment longer, and Race caught sight of a group of newsies from the Bronx, Calico and Gar among them, clustered around the statue of Horace Greeley in Newsie Square.

"Hey, didn'tcha say you was from the Bronx?" he asked, a vague memory of something Artie had said on the way to Sheepshead resurfacing.

"Sold over there for a while," the other newsie affirmed. "Why?"

Race gestured to the group assembled near the statue. "Figured you might wanna come with me to say hello."

Artie gave the coterie a quick glance. "Probably better I don't," he said, sounding a little intimidated.

"Aw, come on," Race grinned. "Ain't nothin' to be afraid of - they's a canny bunch, but they don't bite. Bet'cha they'd want to catch up with one of their own."

"I wasn't part of their lodging house when I sold over there," Artie reminded him. "They ain't gonna know me from Adam."

Race gave a little snort of disbelief. "Pretty sure Calico knows everyone sellin' in her territory, even if you ain't aware that she knows about _you_."

Artie shook his head. "Better I don't," he repeated, almost stubbornly.

Race shrugged. "All right then, suit yourself." It wasn't the newsie way to pry, so he wouldn't question further. There were a number of good reasons why a fellow wouldn't want to be reminded of the past - he certainly knew that well enough.

He was about to suggest that they circle back to see how the marbles game between Finch and Sniper was going, when suddenly there was an uproar from the newsies who had been actively protesting outside of _The World. _Race turned, and saw that the doors to the building were opening. He saw Katherine and Davey hurry towards the entrance as the rest of the newsies crowded in and Les pushed his way to the front of the throng.

And then Jack walked out of the building, Pulitzer just behind him.

"Newsies of New York City!" Jack bellowed, coming to a stop at the top of the stairs leading down to the street. Les ran over to his side, eager to hear the news, and Jack knelt down to whisper something in the younger boy's ear as the crowd quieted, straining to hear the result of the negotiations.

Then Jack hoisted Les onto his shoulder, and the voice of the smallest newsboy rang loudly through the air.

"We _won_!"

* * *

As soon as the victorious words left Les' mouth, celebration erupted all over. Davey felt himself being jostled left and right as the newsies whooped and hollered, jumping up and down and embracing each other and shouting at the top of their lungs. Newspaper Row was bursting with the sights and sounds of exuberant triumph, and the collective jubilation was almost overwhelming.

Davey felt his throat suddenly constrict a little, and tears sprang to his eyes as he felt a wave of relief wash over him.

It was over.

It was over, and they'd _won_. Everything they'd worked so hard for, every frustration and fear, every agonizing decision...it had all come together. They'd done it.

Someone pounded him heartily on the back, and Davey quickly blinked back his involuntary show of emotion and mustered up a smile before turning to see that it was Race.

"We did it, Dave!" the gambler crowed, pulling the surprised Davey into a hug that had the latter almost tearing up again (and telling himself sternly that he would not - _would not _\- let himself cry in front of the other newsie).

But before he could attempt to say anything in return, Jack was rushing over, Katherine not far behind him, and then the rest of the newsies crowded in, and for a moment all was a flurry of excitement and confusion and relief until suddenly Spot spoke up.

"Hey Jacky...you seein' what I think I'm seein'?"

Everyone turned in the direction the Brooklyn leader was looking, and Davey's eyes widened in surprise as he saw a carriage coming down Park Row, Governor Roosevelt seated inside, and beside him was the very familiar figure of -

"Crutchie!" Race cried out, his voice breaking in excitement. "It's Crutchie! It's him!"

"Heya fellas!" Crutchie called out as the vehicle pulled to a stop in front of the excited newsies. "Guess who escaped The Refuge in the back of Teddy Roosevelt's carriage?" He was grinning from ear to ear. "Jack ain't the only one who can tell that story anymore!" Winking, he grabbed his crutch and stood, pausing for a moment to say something to Roosevelt while the rest of the newsies waited impatiently for their friend to disembark.

Jack turned to Katherine in disbelief. "How…?" he began.

"I may have mentioned Crutchie to Governor Roosevelt while we were on our way here to negotiate with my father," she answered, smiling a little. "As soon as we came downstairs, he called his driver and headed straight for The Refuge. I didn't know what he was planning to do...but I'm glad he did it."

"We's all glad he did it!" Race exclaimed, shaking his head in wonderment. "You's an angel, Kath."

Jack didn't say anything, but Davey could see the gratitude in his eyes.

By this time, Crutchie had managed the dismount from the carriage, and the newsies crowded forward, eager to greet their friend whom they'd been sorely missing for the past two weeks, but before any of them could reach him, Jack was there, enveloping the rescued newsie in a bone-crushing hug.

The rest of the boys weren't far behind.

Davey watched them, hesitating a little at the edge of the group. He was glad that Crutchie was back and seemed to be in good spirits, even if he looked a little worse for wear, but it almost seemed wrong to jostle in with the rest of the crowd. He wasn't nearly as close to Crutchie as the other newsies were, and it seemed only right to let the rest of them have their turn first -

But before he could hang back any longer, someone (he never figured out who) pulled him into the collective embrace, and he gave up trying to figure out exactly what the proper protocols should have been in that moment. Maybe they didn't really matter so much after all.

"Ya know, it gets better too," Crutchie said, his voice taking on a mischievous tone.

"Better, huh?" Jack pulled back just slightly to look at the other newsie as though he still couldn't believe he was there, in the flesh, safe and sound. "How's that?"

Crutchie looked over his shoulder at Roosevelt, who was standing off to the side a few feet away, watching the proceedings with a smile. "Can I tell 'em now, Mister Governor?" he asked excitedly. "About...you know?"

The burly man nodded, and Crutchie turned back to the newsies. "I ain't the only one who rolled out of The Refuge in the back of a carriage," he disclosed. "Snyder the Spida got carted out too - but instead of comin' here to greet you all, he's on his way straight to the slammer!"

"Ya serious?" Race demanded eagerly.

Crutchie nodded. "The governor said he's gonna be investigatin' what Snyder's been up to. If he finds out what's been goin' on at The Refuge ain't right, they's gonna shut it down for good!"

This time, Race was the one who was left speechless. The other boys, however, had no trouble giving voice to their elation.

"Finally, the Spida's gettin' what he deserves!"

"Sure wish I could've seen that coot get hauled off!"

"He ain't gonna be botherin' anyone else for a while!"

Jack said nothing at first, but Davey saw him turn towards Roosevelt with a look of gratitude. "Thank you, Governor," he said, his voice heavy with emotion.

The politician smiled in return. "You have yourself to thank, son," he declared. "It was your drawings - the ones that Ms. Plumber brought to my attention - that instigated Mr. Snyder's arrest. As your friend has said, we'll be investigating his abuses - and the conditions at The Refuge - closely in the near future."

The newsies murmured their elation and gratitude, still a bit in awe of the burly politician, but excited at the thought that the man who had caused them so much grief would soon be behind bars, and that if all went well, the place that had been synonymous with heartache and pain could soon close its doors for good.

Roosevelt acknowledged their words of thanks with a gracious smile. "I'm glad all's been set to rights," he declared. "You young people should be proud of what you have achieved. With this strike, you've proven that it's never too early to begin striving for change. You have accomplished a great victory today...but remember that the greatest triumph is not in the success, but in the endeavor. The credit belongs to those who are actually in the arena, who strive valiantly...and spend themselves in a worthy cause…whether or not they win the day when the dust has finally settled. Our world needs your zeal, action, and idealism to galvanize us from complacency, and if you continue to fight for the betterment of our society and our world, the future ahead will be bright for all. So do not shy away from daring to do the impossible, and do not give up on your dreams. Believe you can…" his eyes swept around the group of newsies, "and you're halfway there."

With a final smile and a nod to Jack, Roosevelt started towards his carriage, but before he reached it, a voice cut through the crowd.

"Bravo, Governor! Bravo." Everyone turned in surprise to see Pulitzer making his way towards them, coming to stand next to Roosevelt. "An _inspired_ bit of allocution, advocating for the involvement of our young people in the business of running things and inciting change." His eyes darted to Roosevelt's, and Davey could see the cunning gleam in the newspaper owner's eye. "But I wonder if you would be so supportive of their zeal and idealism if they were investigating _your_ dealings rather than those of your opponents."

Pulitzer smiled his humorless smile, turning to Jack. "_You're_ quite the artist, Mr. Kelly. What do you say to a job at _The World_ as a political cartoonist? You seem to like giving your opinion on things; how would you like to be on the front lines of journalism and social commentary? You'd be exposing some of the darkest secrets of our government's civic leaders - starting, perhaps, with our friend the governor here. And you'd be handsomely paid for your trouble."

Roosevelt was about to say something, but Jack spoke up first. "Hey, it's okay, Gov," he said quickly, giving Roosevelt a half-grin. "I ain't gonna be a problem."

Pulitzer frowned, but before he could say anything more, Roosevelt pointedly suggested that if accusations and threats were going to be levied, they ought to at least be exchanged without unnecessarily involving "the children." Accordingly (and unwillingly on Pulitzer's part), the two men walked off, leaving the newsies alone.

"Well, if that don't beat all…" Race muttered, watching them retreat. "Hey, speakin' of Pulitzer, Jacky, what'd he say about the pape prices? He gonna roll them back?"

"Yeah," Jack nodded. "The terms of our deal was that the price would be reduced to fifty-five cents per hundred, which ain't as much as we was hopin' for, but _The World's_ also gonna start buyin' back whatever we don't sell at the end of the day."

"You mean pape buybacks?" Elmer exclaimed. "We's been wantin' that for a long time!"

Jack nodded again, smiling a little at the younger boy's excitement. "There ain't no risk in takin' a few extra papes now, fellas," he proclaimed. "It's a compromise you all can live with, right?"

The newsies chorused their agreement.

"Good." Jack looked satisfied. "So now that everything's been settled…" he adjusted his cap on his head, his voice and expression suddenly changing, "I, ah, thought I'd be headin' over to Grand Central." He cracked an unconvincing half-smile. "I got a train waitin' for me, and a dream to chase out West."

Completely bewildered silence greeted his declaration.

_Wait - wait, what? Where did that come from? _Davey thought. The sudden about-face seemed completely absurd. Hadn't they just won the strike? Hadn't they just gotten Crutchie back? Was Jack really thinking of packing up and leaving - now? Davey's utter disbelief overrode his characteristic reticence, and he found himself suddenly speaking out.

"I don't get it, Jack!" he exclaimed. "I mean, I could see why the thought of going West might be thrilling...but practically speaking, there's nothing really out there in Santa Fe right now, just a lot of...tarantulas. And sandstorms." Perhaps that wasn't exactly true, but the logic still held, even if the examples were a bit faulty. "Why don't you at least wait another fifteen years or so until they've built the place up a little more?" he suggested, hoping a bit of logical persuasion would get Jack to see reason.

"And in the meantime, we's better than a dust bowl and a buncha hairy spiders, right Jack?" Crutchie gave the newsie leader a little shove in the arm. "Maybe we's a handful...and maybe we gets on your nerves sometimes...but we's your brothers." His voice took on a note of gentle pleading. "Ya can't just go leavin' us like that."

"You _better_ not go leavin' us like that," Race muttered forcefully from behind him.

Jack's expression wavered as his gaze darted between the three of them, then took in the rest of the newsies standing silently by. He said nothing, but Davey saw a look of conflicted indecision cross his face, and it was clear that his resolution to go had been shaken by the opposition voiced by his brothers, and perhaps even by the wordless dejection of those who hadn't spoken up.

After a moment, Jack turned to Katherine, looking into her eyes as though trying to find the answers that he sought.

"It's your choice," she said simply, giving him a little smile though it didn't reach her eyes. "I think you've got some pretty compelling reasons to stay in New York…" she gestured to the newsies, "but if you're heart's set on going to Santa Fe, I'll be there too, right by your side."

Jack looked amazed at the thought. "That so?" he asked, almost faintly.

Katherine nodded. "That's so," she declared firmly.

Davey held his breath, waiting to see what Jack would decide. He almost wished that Katherine hadn't been so quick to divulge her willingness to follow Jack wherever he went (the newsie leader might have been more willing to stay in New York if he thought that his friends _and_ his sweetheart would be in Manhattan and in Manhattan only), but he knew that it was best for Katherine to say whatever she felt was necessary. It was Jack's choice, after all, and he needed to make his decision fully aware of all of his options. He'd been through a lot, and if he really felt that it was the best time for him to leave, well, they would miss him, of course, but Davey at least knew that he could find it in himself to respect the other newsie's decision, even if that decision didn't make any sense to him.

Still, if Jack _did_ decide to leave...things would be in a bit of a mess. Race (only recently released from the unwanted yoke of leadership) would _not_ be eager to reassume command of the newsies, and Davey himself knew that he wasn't experienced enough to handle that kind of responsibility. One of the other newsies could perhaps step up; Crutchie seemed to be the most logical choice, but given all that he'd been through over the past two weeks (compounded by the devastation he'd likely feel from losing Jack), it might be too much to ask. If the newsies went without a leader, even temporarily, how would that look to Spot and the rest, when the Manhattan lodging house had only just recently begun to regain their respect? Equally concerning, if Pulitzer knew that Jack was out of the picture (and Katherine too), would he try to raise the price of the papers again? And how would the younger newsies - Les included - cope with Jack's sudden departure? How could such a departure even be explained? They'd have to figure out some way to make sure that -

"Hey, look!" Les exclaimed, bringing an abrupt halt to Davey's rapidly growing consternation. He turned in the direction his younger brother was pointing and saw that Jack and Katherine had moved off a few feet away and were kissing none-too-discreetly (though it was clear that they'd tried to put at least a little distance between themselves and the rest of the newsies).

"Guess your logical arguments must've worked on him, Dave," Race jibed as he sauntered over, pulling out his cigar.

"Pretty sure it was your subtle threat that did the job," Davey replied, shaking his head in dismay. They really _were _chopped liver next to Katherine. They might as well accept it by now.

"It's all right," Crutchie said softly as he hobbled over to join them, a smile spreading across his face. "He's gonna stay - I can tell."

"Like I said, that bummer _better_ stay," Race reiterated, lighting his cigar. "He don't really have a good reason to leave, anyway - he just got offered the chance of a lifetime in that job of Pulitzer's. He'd be a nitwit not to take it."

"You think he's going to?" Davey asked.

Race shrugged. "Why not? _The World _is his erster. Havin' a cushy job like that has gotta beat sweatin' and sneezin' out here on the streets, and then he won't haf'ta worry about gettin' too old to be a newsie and findin' himself out of a job. Jacky's always loved drawin' - if Pulitzer thinks he's good enough, I betcha other papes is gonna want his services too, and then he can charge top dollar for his drawin's or work exclusively for whoever's gonna give him the best deal. Then he'll be rakin' in the dough real quick, and probably gettin' famous besides, with his drawin's bein' published in the papes."

"I guess that does make sense," Davey acknowledged, hoping that the optimism of the other two newsies would prove to be warranted and that Jack would indeed stay. "I'd imagine having a more stable income would help make things easier if he intends to pursue his relationship with Katherine."

"Seems like that's the plan,'" Race agreed, eyeing the still-kissing couple with a look of mild amusement. "Guess we's gonna have more than enough excitement around here to keep things interesting, even with the strike bein' over."

Davey had the uncanny feeling that Race's dry remark was going to be the understatement of the turn-of-the-century, but he couldn't put his finger on why, so he let it go. Things would be back to normal soon enough, but in the meantime, there was still much work to do.

As if on cue, Weasel's bellowing voice suddenly rang out: "Papes for the newsies! Line up boys, and get'cha papes!"

Davey turned to see that several wagons bearing copies of _The World_ had rolled into Newsie Square. Clearly, Pulitzer was impatient for his employees to get back to work and had brought the newspapers to _them_ rather than electing to wait for the crowd to trickle over to the distribution center.

Race grinned, eager to get to selling. "That's us, fellas!" he exclaimed, straightening his cap on his head. "Come on - bet'cha dinner I can trick Weasel into spottin' me fifty papes right outta the gate!" He sauntered off in the direction of the wagons, whistling as he went.

"Nice to see Race hasn't changed," Crutchie remarked as he and Davey followed at a slower pace. "I have a feelin' there's a lot I'll haf'ta get caught up on, but right now, just seein' you all is good enough for me."

Davey smiled in reply. Leave it to the plucky, optimistic Crutchie to shift the focus away from himself and onto his brothers. Davey wasn't sure if it was just the other newsie's nature to do so, or if it was his way of re-orienting himself after the trials he'd endured in The Refuge, but he could sense the simple contentment in Crutchie's voice, and he couldn't help but settle into a feeling of peaceful satisfaction himself.

He didn't know Crutchie well at all, but he could understand now why Jack was so attached to the younger newsie. There was a kind of quiet strength about him.

The two of them got in line to purchase their papers, and Davey felt an odd sense of déjà vu as Les ran over, shouldering his way into the queue to claim a spot in front of his older brother. Had it really been only two weeks ago that they'd been doing this very same thing for the first time? It felt oddly familiar - there was Race, heckling the exasperated Weasel, there were the Delancey brothers, sneering and scornful, and there were the newsies - boys whose names he hadn't even known at the time but who had now become friends and allies and co-laborers in what had become something so much bigger than themselves.

The strike had changed everything, Davey thought to himself. And yet, in the strangest way, nothing had changed.

The line inched forward as the newsies paid for their papes, and he found himself wondering, in the same way he had on his first day as a newsboy, how many copies he should buy. Twenty - he'd barely managed to sell twenty. But that was before. Before the strike, before the rally, before the compromise and the buyback policy, before becoming who he was now, still the same and yet, in the smallest but most significant way, unalterably changed...

He watched as Les purchased his bundle of papers, and then it was his turn.

Davey stepped up to the head of the line, fished his coins out of his pocket, then placed them down on the money box, hesitating only a moment before saying firmly, "I'll take fifty newspapers, please."

* * *

**A/N:** And just like that, we've reached the end of both the cannon narrative and the first arc of Something Worth Winning! I'd like to express once again my heartfelt thanks to those who have favorited and/or followed along with this story whether as a registered user or as a guest, and I especially want to thank those who have taken the time to leave reviews. Your words have seen me through many moments of quiet discouragement when the inspiration wasn't flowing or my perfectionistic inner critic was getting the better of me. I know that without your kind remarks I wouldn't have had the nerve to keep posting my quirky and convoluted story week after week, so _thank you_. I may be the one writing this, but you are the ones who keep inspiring and nudging me to share, and that means _the woild _to me as a writer who still isn't completely comfortable putting my thoughts out there for others to read. Thank you, thank you, thank you. :)

I hope you'll join me for next week's installment, which will feature our first post-strike chapter _and_ the return of a certain cheeky and culinary-challenged girl whom we haven't seen for a while. Until then, gracious readers, please let me know what you thought of this wrap-up chapter, and continue to stay safe and well during this time!

*The portions of Governor Roosevelt's speech that are underlined in this chapter are quotes spoken by the man himself (in the vein of how he's quoted briefly in the source material).


	51. Evasion at Newspaper Row

**Disclaimer: **This is a non-commercial work of fanfiction. Anything recognizable from _Newsies_ belongs to Disney and not to me.

* * *

Chapter 51: Evasion at Newspaper Row

"Sadie, stop dawdling!" Margaret urged, grabbing her friend's hand and impatiently pulling her down the street.

"I don't understand why you deem it necessary to rush like this, Megs," Sadie grumbled, securing her hat with her free hand as her friend continued to drag her along.

"It's necessary because our lunch recess will only give us long enough for a quick look," Margaret responded. "If things are still as congested as they seemed to be this morning, we'll have a hard time moving quickly, and you know how much Mr. Crowell hates tardiness."

"We could have just gone to the park for lunch as usual," Sadie pointed out. "Then we wouldn't have had to worry about the time."

"And miss out on what's going on at _The World_?" Margaret turned the corner, still pulling Sadie after her as they arrived at the edge of Newspaper Row. "Something big is happening, can't you see it? There was already quite a crush of people heading in that direction this morning. The newsboys must have had some kind of breakthrough, or they wouldn't all be rallying together like this."

"I'm sure we'll find out soon enough," Sadie protested. "We have no business being here - "

"We have _completely legitimate_ business being here," her friend countered smoothly. "Our classmate - your neighbor - is one of the leaders of the newsboy strike. Don't you want to find out what's become of this protest of his? Don't you want to make sure he isn't being beaten up by the thugs of the newspaper owners or hauled off to jail for causing a disturbance?"

"I'm sure he'd be too careful to let something like that happen," Sadie contended, "and even if that weren't the case, we'd have little to offer in the way of helpful intervention." What did Margaret think they could do, anyway? Throw themselves in front of the police wagon? The thought of violence being loosed against the newsboys was always a disturbing one, but practically speaking, there wasn't anything two schoolgirls would be able to do to stop it.

"You mean to tell me that you aren't the least bit curious as to what David's up to?" Margaret asked, suddenly dropping Sadie's hand and turning to look her in the eye. "You don't care what happens to him, or to this strike of his?"

"Of course I care, Margaret." Sadie smoothed her skirt. "I only said that I didn't think our presence would help him in any way. If this is the big city-wide protest that he spoke of a few days ago, he's likely preoccupied with organizing the newsboys or negotiating with the newspaper owners. Our presence would be an unwelcome intrusion."

"You're avoiding him, aren't you?" Margaret accused. "It's because of that little misunderstanding on the way to the park - you've been brooding about it for the past two days!"

"Megs, we _both_ spoke out of turn in that conversation and you know it."

"So apologize to him and move on!" Margaret exclaimed. "It's not so hard as all that."

"I've tried, but the times I've seen him he's been in a hurry. He doesn't seem to want to talk to me."

"That didn't ever stop you from cornering him before."

"It was different then, Megs," Sadie insisted. "He was new in class, and a little shy I think, and he simply didn't know what to make of my friendliness. This is something else entirely. He's putting up a barrier of some kind, and I haven't the faintest idea of how to get past it."

"Well, if he's petty enough to let a little comment like that get to him, then maybe he's not worth your time."

"He's _not_ being petty, Megs," Sadie retorted, taking the bait for the sake of clarifying the situation. "He hasn't been rude or unkind. He's been perfectly courteous to me since then. He's just...more guarded, I suppose." She sighed regretfully. "We'd finally managed to reach a comfortable understanding before all of this happened, and I only want to regain his trust so that he'll talk to me the way he did before."

"He must have a lot of interesting things to say for you to be so taken by his _conversation,_" Margaret said, raising an eyebrow.

"You know that Davey's extremely bright, Margaret," Sadie answered coolly. "His ideas are fascinating." She brushed at her skirt again. "Anyhow, we shouldn't make a nuisance of ourselves by showing up at the protest with no real purpose other than to satisfy our curiosity. I'd rather not go, and we'll already be cutting it close, as you said. You can go on if you'd like, but I'm going to head back to school."

"Don't be like that," Margaret wheedled, grabbing at Sadie's hand as she turned to walk away. "I'll leave off teasing you for now, but at least wait for a moment and let me find out from someone what's happened. Maybe you aren't the least bit curious, but I certainly am, and it would be a shame for us to have walked all the way here only to return without having any of our questions answered."

Sadie gave her grudging consent, promising Margaret that she would wait at that spot for another ten minutes, but that after that she was leaving whether the other girl had returned or not. Her friend promised to be quick, then quickly walked off, heading down the street towards Newsie Square.

Sadie sighed, curling her arms around herself. She moved off to the side a bit, out of the flow of the foot traffic which had gotten increasingly more congested as they'd neared the office of _The World._ There were plenty of people milling about, but there didn't seem to be a large crowd bunched together anymore, so maybe the protest was over.

Letting her footsteps meander a bit (she was sure that Margaret, for all her promises, would likely avail herself of all ten minutes that she'd been allotted, so there was no harm in walking around for a while), Sadie idly took in the various conversations taking place on the street, trying to piece together what had transpired from the little scraps of disclosure that she caught. Here a pair of well-dressed men, perhaps employees of one of the publications whose offices were housed on this street, were deep in conversation, one of them mentioning something about the governor and reform. Several yards away, a knot of children - breaker boys, from the looks of it - were clustered together, jabbering excitedly amongst themselves. People passed to and fro on the street, some walking quickly and others at a more leisurely pace, and Sadie found herself behind a slow-moving trio of young ladies who seemed to have only been passing through and hadn't expected the crowd of people. The tallest of the girls had on a particularly classy-looking hat, and Sadie was trying to figure out how she'd managed to pin it securely, when the sound of a familiar voice reached her ears.

"...I know it probably sounds overwhelming, but if you just take things one step at a time, it'll feel a lot more attainable."

It wasn't a particularly loud or a particularly captivating voice, but its tenor was unmistakable. Sadie crept a bit closer to the group of ladies in front of her, hoping that she could pass by unnoticed as the owner of the voice came into view, strolling in her direction with his head bent low as he listened to the response of the younger boy walking beside him.

They passed her, and Sadie let out a small sigh of relief, stealing a glance over her shoulder to ensure that she was in the clear, but to her dismay, the two boys had drifted off of the street and were straying in the direction of the place where she was shortly due to rendezvous with Margaret. If the other girl caught sight of them, she'd no doubt try to force a conversation, and Sadie really did not want her presence to be revealed just then.

Circling back, she found a moderately-sized group of bystanders and hovered unnoticed at the fringe of their company, keeping a wary eye on the two boys while simultaneously trying to catch sight of her friend. If she could head off the other girl in time, perhaps disaster could be averted.

With nothing to do but wait and watch for the time being, she found herself studying Davey and straining to catch what he was saying to his companion. He looked well enough, so there must not have been an altercation between the newsboys and the police, and his canvas bag was full of papers, which meant…

She inhaled sharply.

Which meant that the strike was _over_.

It must have ended favorably. The smile on Davey's face, the relaxed line of his shoulders, the fact that he was unhurriedly taking the time to converse rather than rushing off to the business of selling his papers, all pointed to a propitious conclusion to the cause he'd worked so tirelessly to advance, and Sadie suddenly felt a little bit of pride well up on his behalf.

It seemed as though he was trying to encourage a young worker from a different profession in his own efforts to lobby for reform. It was difficult to catch the conversation, but she overheard snippets of it here and there:

"...can't let the odds stop you…"

"...have to let the conviction carry you sometimes when it gets hard…"

"…if we can pull it off, I know you can, too..."

Davey was in his element, all sincerity and rambling enthusiasm. It wouldn't have looked like much to a casual observer - he was still far less demonstrative and far less charismatic than most - but Sadie knew that she was seeing him unguardedly alive in that moment, and she found the sight to be ever-so-slightly riveting.

"I thought I'd lost you!" came Margaret's chiding voice, and Sadie turned sharply to see the other girl coming towards her. "Why didn't you wait by the - " Margaret's admonition was cut short as she caught sight of Davey over Sadie's shoulder.

"Don't say a word," Sadie ordered, giving her friend a warning look. "We're leaving." She swept past Margaret in the direction of the street, leaving the other girl to hurry after her.

"Wait!" Margaret grabbed her arm. "We can't go back that way. I saw Oscar when I passed by. He was selling papers to the newsboys with Morris and that fat old man who usually works at the distribution center."

Sadie huffed in frustration, hesitating for a moment as she weighed her options. "Fine," she said tersely, allowing her friend to pull her around in the opposite direction. "But we're keeping a low profile. I don't want to risk running into - "

"David!" Margaret said brightly, looping her arm through Sadie's as the other girl stumbled into place beside her. "Fancy running into you here!"

Sadie felt her cheeks burning as she glanced up to see Davey standing in front of them, looking completely surprised at their sudden appearance. He'd apparently finished his conversation and was headed towards the street, probably about to begin selling his papers, and if Margaret hadn't forced the abrupt about-face just then, he likely would have missed them altogether.

"We've heard the strike has been settled," Margaret began conversationally.

"Yes, we've negotiated a compromise with _The World,_" Davey answered, adjusting his bag of papers on his shoulder a little.

_He's probably impatient to begin selling,_ Sadie thought.

"That must be a weight off of you," Margaret remarked.

"It is," Davey admitted. "I'm thankful that things have finally resolved." He regarded them for a moment, clearly trying to decide whether or not to say something, before his curiosity got the better of him. "Not that it's any of my business..." he said slowly, "but what are you two doing here?"

Margaret shot Sadie a look.

"We saw the crowd gathering on our way to school," she answered reluctantly, "and Margaret wanted to know what had become of the protest. We came over here on our lunch break."

"It was a mutually agreed-upon decision," Margaret interjected, ignoring Sadie's frown at the slight corrective.

"Oh." Davey didn't seem to know what to say in response. "Well, I hope you found the information you were looking for." He shifted the weight of his newsboy bag on his shoulder again, then after a moment added, "I should probably get to selling, but I hope you both have a good day at school." He gave them a polite nod, then turned and walked towards the road, pulling a paper from his bag as he did so.

"Well, you handled that well," Margaret jibed, giving Sadie a look as they began walking in the opposite direction. "Couldn't you have said something to the effect of, 'we wanted to know if your strike had been successful, David' or 'we wanted to make sure that you were all right, David.'"

"Better yet, 'we wanted to stick our noses into something we had absolutely no business meddling in, David,'" Sadie said irritably. "We might as well have spelled it out for him - we looked foolish enough as it was being caught like that."

"It's not as though we were sneaking around," Margaret pointed out. "We - or at least _I _\- had nothing to hide. And if you'd taken my advice and had confronted him about the conversation we had on the way to the park beforehand, you wouldn't have had to be so stilted about it."

Sadie sighed. She knew that it was true. She could have tried harder to track Davey down so that she could apologize and ask him about why the comments she and Margaret had made on the way to the park had affected him so much. She'd given it a cursory effort, but had to admit that she'd been dismayed at his guarded responses and persistent (if polite) brush-offs.

Approaching Davey to draw him out of his shyness was one thing; coming up against his protective reticence was another, especially when she knew that reticence was in place as a result of her carelessness, and while Sadie was generally confident and quick enough with her words, she was not especially eager to confront Davey about this particular matter.

Why had she allowed Margaret to drag her to Newspaper Row in the first place?

The other girl was right, though - Sadie _wasn't _approaching the situation correctly, and she ought to have said something kind earlier, or at least expressed some congratulations. Her words had smacked of indifference and had in all likelihood driven the wedge between her and Davey deeper despite her desire to mend the rift.

Sadie pulled her arm away from Margaret's. "Go on without me, Megs," she said resignedly. "I have to go to talk to him. Nothing's going to get better unless I do."

Margaret looked slightly surprised. "You'll be late for class," she warned.

"I know," Sadie exhaled. She wasn't looking forward to facing the consequences of her tardiness, but she knew she wouldn't be able to listen to a word of the lesson if she didn't at least try to make some progress towards making amends with Davey. So she bid Margaret goodbye and set off in the opposite direction, her eyes scanning the street to see if she could catch sight of the telltale blue and white work shirt.

It would have perhaps been easier if she'd been a bit taller and could have seen further in front of her past the many people transversing Newspaper Row, but eventually she did locate him, selling a paper to a man in a smart-looking trilby.

Waiting until he'd completed the sale and had counted out change, Sadie drew near, hesitating as another customer approached the newsboy before he'd even finished putting away the money from the previous transaction. Clearly, the papers were moving well that day, most likely on account of the strike finally being lifted, and Sadie had to wait for a moment as several additional passersby made their purchases.

It probably wasn't the best time to try to initiate a conversation, she reflected. Of course Davey would be distracted with selling, and he needed to attend to his work. She'd only be in the way and would further bother him with her poorly thought-through decision. Why hadn't she realized that before she'd parted ways with Margaret? Now she was going to be late to class without being anywhere closer to reconciliation.

Deciding to abandon the endeavor, she stepped back, thinking that perhaps if she was willing to sacrifice her dignity and run just a bit, she might be able to catch up with Margaret, but before she could turn to go, Davey finished attending to his last customer and caught her eye.

He didn't seem entirely surprised to see her; had he known that she was there all along?

"Sadie?" He walked over, his conspicuously-lighter newsboy bag swaying just a bit at his side. "Is something wrong?"

It was the perfect segway.

"I…" she found herself suddenly faltering. Yes, something was wrong. She only had to bring it up now in response to his open invitation, only had to speak a few words to inquire after his feelings and to apologize for her part in hurting them, only had to broach the subject to clear the air between friends, simple and straightforward and...

...she couldn't do it.

"I was just wondering if you'll be coming back for tutoring now," she heard herself say, "since the strike has been settled?"

He clearly hadn't been expecting that question.

"Well…I suppose I should," he answered. "That is, if you're still willing to offer it." He added the last part quickly, as though realizing that his initial response could have been construed as ungracious, and Sadie felt her heart sink just a bit at this overcompensation. It wasn't out of character for Davey at all, but before the whole unfortunate incident had taken place, he'd been using such amendments a bit less frequently, as though finally settling into the realization that she understood him, and she wished that he hadn't felt the need to regulate his responses so cautiously again.

"The newsboys are having a meeting tonight," Davey continued, "but I can come by tomorrow evening..if that's convenient for your schedule." The reluctance was clear in his eyes, though she could tell that he was trying not to let it show.

"That would work perfectly," she replied. He thanked her politely, and the exchange probably could have ended at that point, but he seemed to intuitively know that she had more to say, for he made no attempt to disengage himself from the conversation.

"I also meant to express my happiness regarding the strike's successful conclusion," Sadie said, trying to avail herself of the unexpected boon. "I know how much you've labored towards that end, and it must be gratifying to see it all pay off. You ought to be congratulated for your part in the proceedings."

"Thank you," he answered, and she could tell that he _was_ relieved and grateful and maybe rightfully even a little bit proud of what had been accomplished, though he didn't say anything further.

She decided at that point that she probably ought to let him go. "I'll see you tomorrow evening, then," she said, taking a step back.

"Yes, tomorrow evening," he agreed. "Goodbye, Sadie." His farewell was accompanied by the same polite smile he'd been giving her for the past few days, and as Sadie turned and made her way down the street in the opposite direction, she found herself feeling more discouraged than before at her failure to carry out her intention.

She mulled the situation over as she made her way back to school, enduring the chastisement of her schoolmaster upon her late arrival with wordless acceptance before sliding into her desk and immersing herself in the class assignment. She knew that she had blundered the opportunity that day, but the following evening would give her another chance at redemption, and she was determined not to squander that chance a second time. She had a day between now and then to figure out what she was going to say, but the rub was figuring out how to approach things differently so that she did not repeat the mistake she'd made at Newspaper Row.

After class was dismissed for the day, Sadie sent Abby home with Margaret while she fulfilled the requisite penance for her tardiness (thankfully it was only sweeping the schoolroom and cleaning the blackboard erasers that afternoon) and then started home herself, uncharacteristically grateful for the solitary walk back to her family's tenement, though she found as she arrived that her own rumination had not given her the answers that she sought.

Perhaps some outside perspective on the matter would be helpful; she and Davey shared very little in common when it came to personality and temperament, so she was at a loss for knowing how to approach him in this case, and it was probably time to ask for a second opinion.

As Sadie climbed the stairs to the third floor, a thought suddenly crossed her mind, and instead of heading down the hallway to her family's apartment, she stopped outside of the landlord's office, knocking lightly on the door before pushing it gently open.

Her father glanced up at her in surprise.

"Papa," Sadie said soberly, "may I talk to you?"


	52. The Westward Call

**Disclaimer: **This is a non-commercial work of fanfiction. Anything recognizable from _Newsies_ belongs to Disney and not to me.

* * *

Chapter 52: The Westward Call

**A/N**: For clarity: the events of this chapter are taking place concurrently with those of the previous chapter, so there's no time lapse in this particular case.

* * *

Jack, like the rest of the Lower Manhattan newsies, hadn't sold a pape in weeks. It felt odd to be hoisting his newsboy bag, heavy-laden with _The World_, onto his shoulder once again.

Settling the load into a comfortable position, Jack set off down the street, raising his voice and flashing a smile as he got back to the business of spinning stories and improving the truth. The knack returned to him easily, the words rolling off of his tongue, the charm returning with hardly any effort, and the papes moving like hotcakes as he continued to call out the headlines. The day was bright and clear, and folks were eager to buy, having not had easy access to _The World_ while the newsboys were on strike. If this kept up, Jack knew he'd be done selling well before it was time to wait for the afternoon edition, despite the fact that the newsies had gotten a late start on selling that day. He hoped that the rest of the boys were enjoying as much success moving their papes as he was.

He'd deliberately turned his footsteps south, in the opposite direction of Grand Central Station, where, if he'd followed through on his half-hearted plan, he would have been heading now, leaving Katherine and the newsies behind, perhaps forever.

They'd stopped him, however. And though Jack would never admit it to a single soul, he was deeply relieved that they had.

He actually hadn't intended to leave - at least, not right then, not immediately after the strike had been settled. He'd promised Race and the newsies that they'd spring Crutchie from The Refuge as soon as they'd won their fight with Pulitzer, and he had fully intended to make good on that promise...or at least to get caught trying. When the newspaper owner had agreed to roll back the prices and to instate buybacks, the thought of trying to negotiate for Crutchie's release as well had occurred, but Jack had quickly dismissed the thought in favor of sealing the deal. He couldn't afford to get Pulitzer angry and risk losing everything the newsies had worked so hard for. But even as he'd been on his way down from the newspaper owner's office to break the news to the crowd assembled outside_, _he'd been already trying to think of a way to liberate his brother from the Spider's clutches.

All of that hadn't been necessary, thanks to the governor's intervention, and Jack was grateful for it. But he also hadn't been emotionally prepared to see Crutchie again.

Initially, his only response had been a mixture of elation and relief as he'd embraced the younger boy, welcoming him back amidst the crowd of jubilant newsies. The announcement that Snyder was on his way to jail and that The Refuge would soon be under investigation had only added to his momentary excitement.

But then Roosevelt had begun speaking.

And suddenly the familiar weight of guilt was back, and Jack had felt an almost-immediate sense of shame settling upon him as he'd listened to the governor's words. The man was right - the credit belonged to those who had actually fought the fight, to those who had poured their blood, sweat, and tears into the endeavor - but he'd been wrong in assuming that Jack was one who should have been counted among that number.

The feeling of isolation had grown as he'd remembered watching the newsies at work in Pulitzer's basement just the night before, working like a well-oiled machine under the supervision of Race and Davey. The thought had crossed Jack's mind then that maybe they didn't need him anymore - they'd muddled through the strike largely without his presence or his help, so why couldn't they keep that up indefinitely until a new leader was found - a leader that they could count on?

And that was when the thought of leaving to Santa Fe (for real this time) had begun to take root.

He'd counted up his money at the lodging house after he'd finished distributing his allotment of _The Newsies Banner_, and there was enough for him to buy a train ticket, though he knew he'd have to find work immediately once he arrived at his destination. He'd tucked the coins away, knowing that Crutchie's freedom would have to be secured first before he'd even _think_ about skipping town - but in his mind, he was already beginning to plan.

He'd gone into the confrontation with Pulitzer outwardly cocky and confident as ever, determined to make up for his errors by settling the score with the newspaper owner once and for all, but even there he'd stumbled, his composure wavering the moment Pulitzer had mentioned Katherine.

Jack felt his jaw tense in anger as he remembered the man's belittling words, and he caught sight of a potential customer - an elderly woman who'd been about to approach him - giving him a startled look of dismay before she pointedly put her penny back in her purse and went off to find another newsboy.

Jack scowled, massaging his jaw and forcing his expression back into a look of agreeability before he continued walking.

He had only half-listened, only half-cared about Pulitzer's offer of a cartoonist position at _The World._ At that point, Jack had no intention of going along with the man's scheme; he'd been forced to play Pulitzer's pawn once, and he wasn't about to do it again. It was also at this juncture that he'd realized there was no reason for him to stay around any longer. He could put his departure plan into motion immediately - the newsies were in good hands, their company was complete now that Crutchie had been restored, and the strike was settled. Everything was in place, and he might as well take his leave.

So he'd announced his intention to depart immediately, thinking that he'd hurry to the lodging house, grab his money and his art supplies and the few other belongings he owned, and be gone before any of the boys had finished selling for the day. The newsies' response to his declaration had been almost exactly what he'd expected: Davey trying to talk him out of the idea by presenting the logical benefits of an alternative course of action, Crutchie appealing to their shared bonds as brothers, Race muttering threats under his breath, and the rest of the boys standing by somber and silent. Their protests had given Jack pause as he'd realized how much he would miss them...but in that moment, they hadn't been enough to deter him from his intent, hadn't been enough to offset his guilt or to shake the conviction that the newsies didn't need him anymore and would be better off without him. They would miss him, of course (and he would miss them, more than they'd ever know), but they deserved better than him, so he'd take himself out of the picture and make way for a more dependable leader to fill the role.

It had taken Katherine's startling declaration to get him to reconsider. When she'd stated that she would stick by him regardless of where he ran, Jack's plan of departure was stopped in its tracks.

It wasn't that Katherine mattered more to him than the newsies (though she _did_ matter a great deal). It was that she was the _one person_ he hadn't let down yet - and this set her apart. He hadn't failed Katherine, so he could hear her simple appeal to stay without it being drowned out by the voice of accusation telling him that everyone would be better off if he just left. He hadn't broken a promise to her, so he could look into her eyes without the weight of guilt bowing his head. And he hadn't disappointed her, so he could let her affection persuade him to remain. Even though he _knew_ that she was a heiress and he was just a kid from the streets, _he hadn't failed her, _so he could let her love him. There was no guilt standing in the way.

And so he'd stayed, and they'd kissed, and the newsies had cheered and applauded, happy with his decision as they celebrated their victory over Pulitzer and the return to normalcy. The wagons bearing _The World_ had arrived, and the newsies had eagerly gotten back to the business of purchasing their papes for the day, Jack joining them at the end of the line and exchanging a few good-natured jabs with several of the boys as they joked amongst themselves and hounded Weasel and the Delanceys. But even as he'd laughed and grinned and jostled like usual, the guilt had continued to gnaw at him.

After everyone had procured their morning allotment, several of the boys had suggested meeting that evening at Jacobi's, and Jack had quickly agreed, so they'd spread the word to the rest of their contingent before dispersing, going off in all directions to sell their papes, though a few of them, like Davey, had remained behind to talk with some of the working kids who had joined the protest from other parts of the city. Jack had made his way down the street towards Katherine, who had been conversing with her father's secretary while Jack had been purchasing his papes. Catching sight of him, she'd said a quick goodbye to the other woman, then had hurried over to join him.

They'd only spoken for a minute or two; Katherine was expected at _The Sun, _and Jack had a full morning's worth of papes to sell, but they'd agreed to meet up at the same theater where they'd missed their date a few days ago to take in a matinee together. It would be a celebration, their way of redeeming what they'd temporarily lost when Pulitzer had forcefully intervened and attempted to squelch not just the strike but their connection to each other as well.

_I ain't gonna be taken down that easily, Joe, _Jack thought as he continued walking down the street. _Crack the whip all you want, but you ain't gonna whip me. _

The mocking words of the newspaper owner suddenly came back to him, quiet and mocking:

_You've no money, Jack. No ambition. No prospects of ever amounting to anything. _

_You might have your ten minutes of fame now, but after they're all over, who will you be? _

_Katherine isn't as naive as you take her for. She'll soon realize that you're absolutely unfit for her and that there are others who are far better resourced to give her the life that she deserves. _

Jack scowled, irritated at himself for letting Pulitzer's words get to his head. They'd nearly discomposed him earlier during the showdown at the man's office, and if it hadn't been for Davey's clumsy but well-timed intervention, things could have gone very differently at the top of _The World. _

"Extra, extra!" Jack shouted, forcing himself to raise his voice in an attempt to ward off his rapidly-darkening thoughts. "Raging Mobs Trample Three! Civic Leader Indicted in Scandalous Political Cover-Up!"

A few passersby stopped to purchase copies, and the momentary distraction was enough to get Jack's mind off of Pulitzer, at least for the time being. As he continued down the street, he caught sight of Romeo, who raised a hand in greeting. "Hey, Jack!" he beamed, jogging over. "Feels good to get back to sellin', don't it?"

"Yeah," Jack gave him a half-grin. "It sure does."

"Must feel even better knowin' you got yourself a sweetheart outta all this, too," Romeo winked. "Bet'cha never expected that."

"Sure didn't," Jack agreed, feeling his mood already beginning to lift a little at the younger boy's lighthearted chatter and at the mention of Katherine. "We's gonna go see a matinee after I'm done sellin' today," he couldn't help adding. "Gonna be our first real date."

"Ain't that excitin'!" Romeo grinned. "A first real date! I'm happy for ya, Jack."

"Thanks, kid," Jack pulled him into a one-armed hug. Leave it to the romantically-inclined Romeo to put things back into perspective with only a few short remarks. Jack _was_ excited about his date with Katherine, and his connection to her had been an unexpected boon that had come out of all the heartache caused by the strike. Even though he still wasn't sure if a heiress and a street kid could make it, he was going to enjoy what they had...for as long as it lasted.

"Well, I'll let'cha get back to sellin', seein' as you got someone to meet after you's done," Romeo said, giving Jack another wink as he stepped back, "but I'll see ya at Jacobi's tonight?"

Jack nodded. "I'll be there. Good luck sellin' today." Romeo nodded in acknowledgement, giving Jack one final wave before he turned and continued down the street.

Jack smiled as he watched him go, thankful for the chance encounter that had lightened his burden a little. He'd always had a soft spot for the younger newsies, and while he would have said without a second thought that he loved all of the boys equally (with Crutchie perhaps being the one exception), each one of them had a unique role in his life, and each one of them held claim to a different little part of his heart. Romeo was no exception, and Jack had never been more thankful for the younger boy's cheerful, optimistic mien than he was now.

He would have missed them all terribly if he'd left.

Reaching into his bag to pull out another paper, Jack resumed his work of hawking headlines, not minding at all, for the moment, that he was walking through the crowded, stinking streets of New York instead of waiting at the station for a train to take him out west.

Santa Fe, for all of its beauty, could wait a while longer.


	53. Bitter Rumination

**Disclaimer: **This is a non-commercial work of fanfiction. Anything recognizable from _Newsies_ belongs to Disney and not to me.

* * *

Chapter 53: Bitter Rumination

Oscar Delancey pulled the gates of the distribution center shut with a clatter, wrapping the heavy chain twice around the central bars and clicking the padlock shut before slouching back to the counter behind the circulation window to gather his things.

It was time to head home for the day.

Pulitzer had apprised the distribution center of the recent changes in protocol, so Wiesel, Oscar, and Morris had been ready to process newspaper buybacks, but surprisingly, on that first day there were none. People were eager to buy the papers that had been in limited supply since the strike began, so the newsboys had sold everything, down to the last copy, and the distribution center was spared the necessity of having to recompense them for their surplus.

_Small favors_, Oscar though sourly as he shrugged on his coat. Once the buyback process was in full swing, he'd likely have to start staying late at the distribution center. He wouldn't put it past the upstart newsboys to take more papers than they could sell simply to make a nuisance of themselves, and of course Oscar would then be the one who would have to accommodate their insolence. Wiesel generally left for the day about an hour before closing, and Morris couldn't be counted on to return after his late afternoon break (which always occurred conveniently after their uncle departed, though Oscar had no desire to rat out his brother, as he often took advantage of Wiesel's long lunch breaks to do some shirking of his own, and Morris had loyally never said a word).

Making his way out of the distribution center through a back entrance, Oscar headed down the street. It was Wednesday - too early in the week (and too early in the evening) to be hitting a bar for some hard liquor - but he wanted to blow off steam somewhere, so he headed towards his favorite establishment, a little pub on Worth Street that was halfway between the distribution center and the apartment he shared with Morris and Wiesel.

Sidling into the pub, Oscar took his usual seat at the end of the bar and waited for his drink. He frequented the place often enough where he didn't have to give his order to the bartender, and he liked it that way.

His stomach growled. A year or two ago, he would have simply pulled out his pocketbook and ordered something to eat, but today he only had enough to pay for his drink, so he bitterly crushed the thought. Loosening his tie, he sullenly took in the other patrons of the establishment. There was another young man at the opposite end of the bar, dressed smartly in a well-tailored suit but already looking a little disheveled and well into his cups. At a card table in the corner, a group of older men were exchanging joking insults, beers at the ready, as they riled each other up and emptied their poker chips into the pot in preparation for the next hand.

Oscar's lips curved into a sneer of contempt. _Gamblers. _He couldn't stand their ilk. Pouring their hard-earned money away like so much dishwater down the drain in asinine defiance of life's harsh realities and their own responsibilities, grubbling like greedy children for dollars in a stupid game. He cracked his knuckles, feeling his ire grow. _Idiots. Pathetic, worthless idiots who would lose everything at that card table, everything they'd worked for, laughing hysterically as they gambled themselves and their dependents into humiliating deprivation, all for the sake of one more blasted round of - _

The bartender set his drink down, and Oscar curled his large hand around the glass, gripping it tightly in an effort to cool his anger. He was all riled up now, and the jocular sounds of the poker game in the corner grated on his nerves, so he finished his drink quickly, set his money down next to the empty glass, then slouched out of the bar without a word.

The sun was just beginning to set, and Oscar was about to head towards the apartment, irked that his brief stop at the pub had afforded no respite, but before he could start walking in that direction, he caught sight of a small group of the Lower Manhattan newsies making their way down the street in high spirits, Higgins leading the group and the rest of the boys half-dragging and half-pushing along a reluctant-looking Nineteen Papes.

"Look, I appreciate the invitation," Oscar heard him protesting, "but I probably should head back home if this is just going to be a party and not a debriefing meeting like I thought."

Higgins took off his cap and smacked the other newsie with it. "Ya mean to tell me Davey Jacobs is too straight-laced to take part in a little revelin' with his pals?" he demanded.

_So, _Oscar thought, _Nineteen Papes had a name. _

"I've got another job, Race, in case you've forgotten. My family's depending on me - "

"They's gonna be just fine," the gambler interrupted. "The work's always gonna be there. Take a break and live a little, Dave!" He caught sight of Oscar standing in the street and grinned, his attention momentarily diverted.

"Dear me, what have we here?" he drawled, setting his cap back on his head. "You lost, Oscar? Or just lonely?"

"Shut it, Higgins," Oscar growled.

"Got a better idea," the newsie jibed. "Why don'tcha put an egg in your shoe...and beat it?" A few of the newsies snickered, pounding Higgins on the back as though he'd said something particularly clever. With an insolent smirk, the gambler gave Oscar a mocking two-fingered salute, then he and the rest of his posse continued down the street, back to the business of overriding the half-hearted remonstrations of their protesting accomplice.

Oscar cracked his knuckles, scowling darkly as he watched them go. He sorely wished that Morris was with him; the two of them might have been able to give the small group of newsies a hard time, but one against five was simply bad odds, and he wasn't foolish enough to go up against the scrappy ruffians when he was so obviously outnumbered.

He wouldn't forget Higgins' insult, though. The buffoon had it coming, and deferred action today simply meant additional time for resentment to age into a more potent impetus for retaliation when a later opportunity presented itself.

He'd learned Jacobs' name, too, which was a timely development. Oscar hadn't forgotten how the dark-haired boy had bested him in the staredown at the circulation window the week prior, and while Higgins was a far more deserving target for retribution, it couldn't hurt to add this little bit of information to the mental ledger.

Oscar turned down the street and made his way in the opposite direction, away from the boisterous, friendly sounds of the newsies as they headed off to celebrate. They could e_njoy _their little short-lived victory. Once they woke up the next morning, they'd realize that life was no different from the same dull, dreary monotony that had made up their days before the strike. Nothing had changed - they were still street scum, scrabbling and striving to eke out a miserable living, and making-merry today was only turning a blind eye to the harsh reality of tomorrow and going into it a dollar or two poorer than you would have if you'd simply gone home in the first place. Oscar might not have a drink or a dinner out to look forward to, but he had his revenge to plot. That would be a satisfying enough diversion for the evening.

_If a fella knocks you down, you get up and knock him down harder - so hard that he don't get back up, you got that? _The bitter admonishment rang in Oscar's ears, and he could almost see his father's surly face and smell the stink of the alcohol on his breath when he'd come home late at night, angry and sullen after taking another loss at the card table. If there was one thing the worthless scumbag had taught his sons, it was how to hold - and settle - a grudge. You hit back harder than you were hit, paid back an insult tenfold, and never forgot an offense. It was how you kept your pride intact.

Ironically, the man had eventually come to grievous injury at the hands of his own sons, boys to whom he'd taught only too well the art of retribution and the principle of an eye for an eye (and then some). Sure, roughing up the striking trolley employees had been honest work for Oscar and Morris - but it had also been a chance for them to repay their father, the man whose selfish, ill-advised choices had landed their family in trouble and had paved the way to a life of hired thuggery in the first place. (Not that either of them was complaining about their side-job, though - it paid well, better than working for their Uncle Wiesel, and it was a good way to blow off some steam while making a little extra cash).

Oscar supposed that there was some poetic justice in getting to repay his father for all of the suffering he'd put his family through, but though attacking the striking trolley workers had cooled his anger temporarily, it had given him no relief. Morris was the kind to vent his anger and then forget, but Oscar would brood, and he never forgot - his father had taught him too well.

If the boor had applied his shrewdness to his business concerns rather than to his cards or his cups, his family would have been in a far different place right now, and Oscar would not have been slouching through the grimy streets of Manhattan alone, on his way back to Wiesel's tiny, dingy apartment. It was all his father's fault, and Oscar would never forgive him for it.

That was the past, Oscar reminded himself, his eyes narrowing and his mouth settling into a grim line. He couldn't change it. But he _could_ make sure that those insolent newsies - beginning with Higgins - learned not to cross him so impudently in the future. They were giddy now, drunk on fame and on the paltry success of their little strike effort, but Oscar would bide his time, and once the exuberance wore off, the newsies would find out the hard way that he was not a Delancey to be trifled with.

* * *

In the end, Race and the newsies basically resorted to dragging Davey along to Jacobi's by force. It probably hadn't been very considerate of them to ignore his objections - he _did_ have a family depending on him, and unlike most of them, he still had work he could do even after he'd sold his last edition of _The World - _but Race was in a celebratory mood, and he'd wanted everyone to be at the gathering. Davey had insisted that Les go home, as the younger boy would be going back to school the following day and needed his rest, but he'd hesitated for just a moment after they'd escorted his brother back to the tenement, and that split second of indecision had been more than enough time for Race (and other boys he'd brought along for back up) to gang up on him.

They'd gotten him back down the stairs and to the street with a lot of arguing and a little manhandling, and by the time they were a few blocks away from Jacobi's, Davey was only putting up a half-hearted protest (four against one was simply bad odds, after all).

When they arrived, Race saw that almost everyone else was already there, gathered around their usual table with waters in hand (Albert, he noted, was celebrating big and had sprung for a seltzer).

The only one missing was Jack.

"Heya fellas," Race greeted the group as he and the rest of his little band found their seats around the table. "You all ready to do this celebratin' right?"

"You bet'cha!" Jojo declared.

"We was just waitin' for the rest of you to show up," Mush added, raising his glass of water in a casual toast. "Can't start the celebratin' without our fearless leaders!"

"Ya see, Davey?" Race jibed, elbowing the reluctant newsie in the arm. "Ain't you glad you came now?"

"You told me this was going to be a _meeting_," Davey accused for probably the tenth time that evening. "A meeting, as in 'a time for discussing important matters pertaining to the strike's conclusion,' not a misnomer for a party."

"Ain't my fault we got different understandin's of what a meetin's gotta entail," Race gave an indifferent shrug. "You shoulda asked."

"Besides, what's wrong with a party, Davey?" Elmer piped up, and Davey couldn't come up with a response to the innocent question, so he settled for leveling an unamused look in Race's direction before sitting silently back in his chair, unhappily resigned to an evening of unexpected festivity.

_That bummer's gonna have to learn to loosen up a little,_ Race thought, not for the first time. "Hey, anyone know where Jacky's at?" he asked aloud, glancing at the clock by the cash register. It was already well past seven, the time they'd agreed to meet at the deli.

"Pretty sure he'll be along soon," Romeo spoke up. "He was gonna go catch a matinee with Katherine after he finished sellin' for the day - he's probably just wrappin' things up."

Race felt a flare of indignation. _Still blowin' us off, huh Jacky?_

"He'd probably be fine if we wanted to get things goin'," Crutchie suggested, and Race could tell that the other newsie had caught his fleeting look of annoyance. "It's gonna take Mr. Jacobi a while to get through all of our orders anyway - we might as well have the fellas start."

It was a valid point, but an obstinate part of Race didn't _want_ to move things along. He wanted Jack to step in and take over again. He was tired of being the one to give the directions and make the decisions and smooth things over yet again. He was tired of covering for Jack for the hundredth time.

"That sounds like a good plan, Crutchie," Davey's quiet voice broke in, and Race looked over to see that the dark-haired boy had dropped his reluctant expression and was wearing a look of forced agreeability, clearly intent on assuaging Race's growing annoyance. "I'm sure most of us are ready to eat, so it couldn't hurt to start getting our food. Jack will probably be here by the time we've placed our orders."

Race pointedly ignored the imploring look that followed the hesitant suggestion. He refused to be the final word this time. "I ain't the one in charge around here," he said sullenly, folding his arms across his chest, "so if that's what you bummers wanna do, be my guest." When no one moved, he gestured towards the deli counter. "Go on. I ain't stoppin' you."

An uncomfortable silence followed his pronouncement. Some of the younger newsies looked at each other, unsure of what to do, while Crutchie gave Race a warning glance that said that this wasn't over. Davey looked conflicted, probably torn between wanting to step in and trying to adhere to his assertion that once the strike was over, he was a regular newsie like everyone else and wouldn't be giving the orders anymore.

Eventually, though, someone had to take charge.

"Davey, why don'tcha get the orders goin' and make sure the fellas all get somethin' to eat?" Crutchie suggested mildly. "Race and I are gonna have a little talk." He got to his feet, tucking his crutch under his arm, and then inclined his head in the direction of the door. "Come on, Race," he said. "Let's get some fresh air."

Race ground his teeth as he followed the other newsie out of the deli. This wasn't how he'd wanted the post-strike celebration to go, with everyone suddenly walking on eggshells and him having to explain to Crutchie why he was so out of sorts.

They walked silently down the street for a bit, coming to a stop at a bench in front of the chemist's shop a few doors down from Jacobi's. Crutchie eased himself onto the worn wooden planks, and Race noted with some concern that the movement was more awkward than usual, which probably meant that the other newsie was in pain.

"You feelin' all right, Crutch?" he muttered.

"Just a little stiff, that's all," the other boy grunted, settling himself on the bench. He propped his crutch up beside him. "What I wanna know is why you's actin' so bitter all of a sudden. It ain't like you, Race."

Race frowned. There were a number of answers to that question, all varying in degrees of honesty and disclosure.

"Just needin' to blow off some steam," he muttered vaguely. "The last few weeks haven't been a walk in the park, ya know?"

A less even-tempered boy than Crutchie Morris would have answered that statement with a sharp reminder that a two-week stay in The Refuge hadn't been a walk in the park either, but true to form, he didn't say anything about it, and only seemed to evaluate Race's statement for a moment before he spoke again.

"You an' Jack get into some kinda argument about the strike?" he asked bluntly.

"Guess you could say that," Race answered. As much as he wanted Jack to have to face up to his shortcomings with the rest of the newsies, the newsie sitting beside him on the bench was a different matter, and Race knew that he had to tread carefully. The friendship between Jack and Crutchie was something unique - separate and untouchable. The rest of the boys understood that, and no one ever tried to come between them. To tell Crutchie about Jack's disappearance after the brawl or about his deal with Pulitzer would have felt virtually treasonous, and Race, despite his bitterness, was far too loyal to cross that line.

"You didn't have it out the way you normally do?" Crutchie wanted to know. Everyone at the lodging house was used to Jack and Race's occasional spats and the predictable pattern in which they resolved themselves.

"We talked," Race grunted noncommittally, giving the other newsie a shrug.

_Better stop pryin' if you know what's good for you, Crutchie._

The other boy clearly wasn't satisfied with the answer.

"Talked about _what_?" he demanded. "It's gotta be somethin' serious if it's still eatin' you."

"Just some differences of opinion 'bout how things shoulda been done." Race rolled his neck, trying to hide his agitation. He wasn't the kind to give evasive answers or to hold back, and the effort was wearing on him quickly.

"You and Jack always had differences of opinion," Crutchie pointed out. "But you always backed down and let him lead. What happened this time?"

"This time was just different, all right?" Race snapped.

_Back off, you bummer...I don't wanna hurt'cha. _

Crutchie gave him a slightly suspicious look. "You ain't tryin' to challenge Jack, are ya?" he pressed, sounding wary. "You ain't gunnin' for his position?"

Race stared at him in shock. "No! No, it ain't anythin' like that!" he exclaimed. Of all the ridiculous ideas! He could see how the other newsie could have drawn that conclusion, given the way the conversation was going - but still, for Crutchie to even _think_ that Race would ever try to usurp Jack's place of authority -

"Then why couldn't you just let him do his job?" the other newsie broke in.

Race scowled. "I just _couldn't!_" he said sharply, his ire growing at the slight accusation and his inability to defend himself without compromising their leader. "Jack - " He stopped himself, biting back the words he'd been about to say, and clenched his fist instead.

"It was a complicated situation, Crutchie," he said, forcing the words out. "It ain't as straightforward as it sounds."

Crutchie's eyes narrowed just a fraction of an inch. "Everyone's been kinda quiet about the last two weeks," he muttered, sounding suddenly upset. "What happened, Race?" His voice wavered a little. "What was _really_ goin' on while I was in The Refuge?"


	54. An Unexpected Agenda

**Disclaimer: **This is a non-commercial work of fanfiction. Anything recognizable from _Newsies_ belongs to Disney and not to me.

* * *

Chapter 54: An Unexpected Agenda

Katherine's laugh bubbled up as she and Jack left the theater hand-in-hand, making their way down the steps to the street.

"...then Specs doused the fire with Albert's seltzer water," Jack finished grandly, wrapping up his story, "and ever since, no one's let Elmer anywhere near an open flame."

Katherine chortled, wiped a mirthful tear from her eye with her free hand. "Your boys sound like a bunch of mischief-makers! Why am I not surprised?"

"I got probably hundreds of stories like that," Jack admitted, looking pleased at her amusement. "They's a handful, that's for sure, but it's never borin' with them around."

"It's good they've got you to look after them," Katherine remarked, smiling at the barely-concealed pride in his voice, "otherwise the lodging house might be in danger of burning down - literally!"

"Well, a fella does what he can." Jack gave a modest shrug.

"Speaking of the newsies," Katherine glanced at her wristwatch, "don't you have a celebration to get to?"

Jack stopped walking and slapped his forehead, cursing mildly under his breath. "Forgot about that," he muttered. "Was supposed to be there at seven - what time's it now?"

"Just a little half past," Katherine answered, glancing at her wristwatch. "You won't miss much if you hurry."

He gave her a guilty look. "It don't seem right for me to just leave ya like that when we just finished our first real date."

She waved him off. "I enjoyed the show, Jack, and your stories, too, but we don't need to stand on ceremony. It's important for you to celebrate with your boys, and we'll see each other again soon enough. I really don't mind if you want to head out."

He hesitated. "For sure?"

She nodded firmly. "For sure. Tell them I said hello, and enjoy yourself."

The relief in his eyes was thanks enough, and he flashed her a quick grin before turning to jog off in the direction of Jacobi's Deli. But before he'd made it halfway down the block, he suddenly turned and came sprinting back to plant a quick kiss on her cheek.

"You's a gem, Plumber," he murmured in her ear. And then he was off, dashing down the street again.

Katherine watched him go. Then, she turned and began walking purposefully in the opposite direction. It had worked out in her favor that Jack had been too preoccupied with his nearly-forgotten engagement with the newsies to ask her where she would be heading next (he probably just assumed she'd go back to her apartment). She had a very important man to see, and while Jack wouldn't have been able to stop her from pursuing an audience with him, it was easier not to have to deal with any well-meaning objections.

The excitement of the strike being settled, the thrill of having been able to convince Jack to stay in New York, and the pleasant recollection of the time they'd spent together on their spontaneous date all hummed in the back of Katherine's mind, but with each step she took towards her destination, that hum quieted until it was a barely perceptible whisper, carefully hidden away but kept close like the memento of a loved one sequestered the pocket of a soldier about to be deployed.

Her footsteps carried her to Newspaper Row.

Bypassing the office of _The Sun,_ she made her way down the street to the imposing establishment that was her father's headquarters for _The World. _The grand-looking "Pulitzer Building" was not quite ten years old, and she could still remember coming to visit the site when the structure was being built from the ground up, standing at the edge of the construction area in her knee-length silk skirts, surreptitiously kicking at little pebbles and bits of rubble while her father was preoccupied in conversation with the foreman.

Their weekly visits to the construction site were usually followed by an early lunch at Delmonico's, which was only a short carriage ride away (or a moderately easy walk if the weather was good). Katherine could still taste the buttery tang of Hollandaise sauce running over warm, crispy bacon and a perfectly toasted English muffin - her father always ordered the restaurant's speciality steak, but eggs Benedict were her favorite.

Over the meal, her father would alternate between quizzing her on whatever lessons she'd been learning from her tutors and expounding (sometimes rather long-windedly) upon the importance of hard work and innovation. Katherine generally listened politely but with half an ear, focused on her eggs and eager to get to the end of the meal, when her father would always order her a half-dozen bonbons to take home. Looking back on it, she wished she'd been old enough to treasure those times for what they were - rare moments of connection with the man whom she called father but seldom saw, as he was dedicated to building his business empire which left him little time for directly interacting with his daughter.

Their lunches at Delmonico's were an unusual and relatively short-lived exception. When construction on _The World's_ headquarters was completed a year later, their routine came to an end, and though Katherine at the time had lamented the loss of eggs Benedict and bonbons more than the loss of her father's company, she knew now what a brief and precious time it had been, even if recalling it now was bittersweet.

The fond memory gave her strength as she reached the entrance of _The World,_ now closed for the day. The doors were locked, but Katherine knocked anyway, hoping that Hannah would still be in despite the lateness of the hour.

It was not her father's secretary who answered, however, but Willie the janitor. He opened the door, looking surprised to see her, but obligingly ushering her into the lobby and turning on the overhead lights that had already been extinguished for the day.

"A pleasant eveinin' to you, Miss Katherine," he said politely. "You needin' to go up to see your pa?"

Katherine nodded. "Is he still in his office, Willie?"

"Hasn't budged since this afternoon," the janitor answered. "I was up there dustin' in some of the empty offices earlier, and I heard him tell Miss Hannah he was gonna be workin' late tonight."

_When was the man ever _not _working late?_ Katherine thought wryly. She smiled at Willie. "Thank you; I'll go up to see him now."

"You want me to fire up the elevator, Miss?" he asked. "I can have it ready to go in a jiffy."

"No, thank you," Katherine answered. "I actually wouldn't mind the walk this evening."

The janitor touched his cap respectfully. "Well, if you need anything else, just let me know, all right?"

She thanked him, then turned to make her way up the stairs. It would be a long walk up to her father's office, but it would be some much-needed time to prepare herself for the impending meeting, and she knew that she would need to bring all of her focus and acumen to bear if she was to have any hope of a successful outcome.

By the time she'd climbed all fifteen sets of stairs, she knew that she was ready. Making her way down the hallway to Pulitzer's suite, she walked through the open door of the receiving area. A light was on in her father's office, and as she peeked in, she saw that he was bent over his desk, looking through the numbers in his ledger.

Katherine stepped across the threshold and slowly drew near, knowing that he must have caught sight of her by now even though he gave no acknowledgement of her presence.

She came to a stop in front of his desk.

"Apa*," she said quietly.

The use of the childhood moniker was deliberate, and she held her breath as she waited to see how he would respond.

Pulitzer said nothing, but his finger abruptly ceased moving across his ledger. Then, after a moment, he slowly took off his glasses, set them down on the desk, and looked up at her.

"What is it, Kit?" he asked calmly.

Katherine felt her shoulders droop slightly in relief.

"I wanted to talk to you," she said, taking a seat in one of the high-backed chairs that flanked her father's desk and scooting closer so that they still sat at a comfortable distance but without the barrier of the work surface between them. "About the strike. And about Jack."

"Yes? And what about them?" There was a bit of brusqueness in the man's tone, and Katherine knew she would have to tread carefully. She'd managed to get past her father's first line of defense, but that didn't mean they were on an equal playing field by any means, and she still wasn't sure exactly where he stood when it came to either of the two subjects she'd broached. She would need to be straightforward (her father hated to waste time) but tactful if she wanted to get answers out of him.

"I was surprised that you offered Jack a job working here," she said, deciding to start off with a more or less innocuous observation. She knew that the professed motive had been to get at Roosevelt, but her father was far too canny for that to be his only purpose.

"The boy has potential," Pulitzer said simply. "And talent."

Katherine nodded in agreement; Jack's artistic knack was what had initially caught her attention too. It made sense that her father would want to leverage that talent for his own purposes. But something about it still seemed out-of-character. Joseph Pulitzer was enough of a giant in the newspaper world where he could have a line of gifted would-be cartoonists waiting outside of his office ready to offer their services if he really had a position that he was looking to fill. So why had he offered the job to Jack?

"I suppose a better question might be, 'why didn't he take me up on it?'" her father mused when she didn't say anything aloud. "I offered him a chance to get out of a dead-end profession, a profession that he looks to be getting rather long in the tooth for, if my eyes don't deceive me. If he knew what was good for him, he would have signed on right away."

"He didn't say no," Katherine pointed out. She had hoped that Jack would take the cartoonist job, too, but she hadn't wanted to push him in the moment, especially when he'd been only a step away from leaving New York altogether.

"The boy lacks ambition," her father said curtly. "And the decisiveness necessary to get ahead in life."

"You know _nothing_ about what his life is like!" Katherine exclaimed, her anger on Jack's behalf making her bristle at the unfeeling criticism.

"And I suppose you do?" her father asked. "How long have you known this boy, Kit? A few days? A week or two, maybe?"

"Why does that matter?" Katherine retorted. "In the last two weeks I've seen and learned more about Jack than I have about other men I've known for _years_." The implicit accusation came out sounding more barbed than she intended, but she was riled up now, and the disappointments of her younger self were bleeding into what should have been her calm and rational demeanor.

So much for keeping a cool head.

Well, if she was going to abandon self-possession, she might as well do it full-sail.

"Do you even care about me, Father?" she asked abruptly, her voice quivering a little. "Did it ever occur to you that when you _used me_ against Jack, when you baited and belittled him and then _forced_ him to turn against the boys who are like family to him, that it would _tear me apart inside_? Did you ever stop to think about anyone besides yourself and building your newspaper empire?"

She paused only long enough to take a steadying breath before continuing. "I know that you see me as a traitor and a rival and that your philosophy on life is to overpower anyone who stands in your way." She looked at him, her eyes beginning to blur with tears. "But can't you see that I'm your _daughter_, too? Doesn't that mean _anything_ to you?"

Pulitzer hadn't said anything, but at her final question, he reached up and rubbed his eyes, a gesture Katherine had seen often enough when he was particularly troubled or vexed. When he spoke, his voice was weary.

"Did it ever occur to you, Kit, that a father might be hard upon a boy who fancied his daughter because that father did, in fact, care about her?" He gave her a pointed look.

"It - " Katherine struggled to answer. "It - hadn't occurred to me," she said haltingly.

Pulitzer sighed. "Young Mr. Kelly is passionate and charismatic, and he seems to possess a singular sense of loyalty and a high level of resourcefulness," he conceded. "But his emotional volatility won't do him any favors in life." He paused, then added, "I fear he lacks the resolve and dedication necessary to sustain a stable existence, as well as the ambition to get ahead. These things should be concerning to you if you plan to build a future longer than a week or two with him."

The sharp observation hurt, but there was a bit of truth in the sting.

"We're only just beginning to get to know each other," Katherine hedged.

"Which is precisely why it would be wise to consider the future now before you get too involved," her father stated in the same dispassionate tone. "I know you have a mind of your own, and that you'll do just as you please regardless of any counsel from me." He looked at her shrewdly. "But I'm not going to stand by and let a cocky near-derelict waltz his way into this family without at least attempting to test his fortitude first."

"But you offered him a job," Katherine stated, still trying to figure out how that unexpectedly generous proposal fit with her father's rather dim view of Jack.

"I offered him a chance to rise above his meager life on the streets," her father said shortly. "And a chance to make something of himself. If he truly cares about you, Katherine, he should be thinking about how he can improve his circumstances rather than simply survive. But whether he avails himself of my benevolence or not is up to him." The words were weighted, but Pulitzer said nothing more, only picked up his glasses, settled them on his nose, then returned to poring over his ledger, clearly indicating that the conversation was over.

"I'm not going to manipulate Jack into taking your offer," Katherine said. "It's his choice to make, not mine."

"Certainly," Pulitzer agreed, not looking up.

Katherine waited a moment longer, but the man said nothing more, so eventually she bid him a quick goodnight (which he returned in an equally perfunctory tone) and then made her way out of his office and down the stairs to the lobby.

Willie had just finished mopping the floor. "Careful, Miss Katherine," he warned. "It's a bit tricky steppin' around here."

Katherine nodded. _Tricky indeed. _The meeting with her father hadn't gone the way she'd expected - she'd come away from it with answers, but not the answers she'd been looking for - and it remained to be seen how the man's unexpected agenda would play out regarding her relationship with Jack.

She _didn't _plan on persuading him to take the job at _The World,_ but now that her father had mentioned the advantages of the position, she wondered if maybe a casual broaching of the subject would be wise, just to put it back on Jack's mind. He'd had a lot to think about, so the job offer from Pulitzer had likely fallen to the wayside.

It couldn't hurt to bring the matter to his attention again.

* * *

**A/N:** Pulitzer is a pretty interesting villain as he's depicted in the musical. He doesn't get a lot of real character development or much of an arc throughout the story, so there's a lot of unknowns for a fanfiction writer to play with (it's also fascinating to read about the historical figure of Joseph Pulitzer and compare it to how he's portrayed in _Newsies_, but I digress…). What do you think, gracious readers? Is it possible that Pulitzer (the character) could have had a softer, more fatherly side to him despite his "bottom line" ruthlessness? Or were his actions in the musical reprehensible enough where this doesn't seem likely? I'd be curious to know your thoughts on this subject, as well as your reactions to my take on him in this chapter.

*Apa is the Hungarian word for "father." My headcanon is that Pulitzer, who was born in Hungary and knew the language, taught Katherine a few words here and there as she was growing up, and that she referred to him as "Apa" until she got older and began addressing him by his English title.


	55. Late-night Reflection

**Disclaimer: **This is a non-commercial work of fanfiction. Anything recognizable from _Newsies_ belongs to Disney and not to me.

* * *

Chapter 55: Late-Night Reflection

Sadie absentmindedly worked her hairbrush through a particularly stubborn knot, thinking to herself that it was probably time for a haircut soon. It wasn't so bad during the day when her slightly unruly mane was braided or pinned up under her hat, but when she had to take it down at night, she found her long hair tangling far too easily.

Once she had worked the last snarl free, Sadie set her hairbrush down on the vanity she shared with Abby, then pulled on her dressing gown. She'd already prepared for bed and had briefly contemplated trying to turn in at her usual time, but she found her mind not quite ready to rest yet, so she decided that she would take a candle out to the sitting room and write a letter to Judith instead.

The rest of the apartment was still, and Sadie closed the door to the bedroom quietly so as not to wake the already-slumbering Abby. She made her way over to the writing desk, set the candle down, then pulled a piece of stationery and a pen out of the little drawer before settling herself into the chair.

It had been a very full day, and normally she would have been more than ready for a good night's rest, but she found herself needing to get her thoughts out somehow. Years ago, she would have crept over to Judith's bed and would have gently (and then eventually more persistently) prodded her sister until the older girl woke up, but Judith wasn't here to talk to now, so writing to her would have to do instead.

Sadie nibbled her bottom lip, thinking for a moment before she began scribbling away.

_Dear Ju, _

_You must be wondering why I've eschewed our sisterly protocol and have written to you without waiting for your response to my last letter (I know how you dislike it when things 'pile up' before you can attend to them). Rest assured that this is not an indirect nudge for a more timely answer - I simply find myself missing my wise older sister this evening and am in need of a listening ear. _

_I've made a bit of a blunder, Ju, and I'm at a loss for knowing how to fix it. You know how impulsive I am, and that I have a rather bad habit of speaking first and thinking later; you also know that I'm not particularly adept at the kind of discourse that requires me to be serious and sober rather than my usual teasing self. If I had an ounce of your natural prudence or Abby's natural reticence, I'm sure I'd land myself in far less trouble than I do, but it seems I'm only the possessor of an overabundance of lighthearted conversation and a knack for meaningless banter rather than anything particularly useful. (Please refrain from nodding sagely when you read this - I know my disclosure is no great revelation to you, but it does tie into my point, which I'll elaborate on forthwith). _

_Do you remember David, the boy I wrote about in my last letter? Without expounding unnecessarily so as not to exhaust your patience or my supply of writing paper, I must confess that I think I may have spoken amiss in a conversation with him and as a result have inadvertently offended him. He hasn't done anything to indicate anger or hurt on his part, but he's drawn back somehow, and I find myself dismayed to find that all of the progress I've made at winning his trust and drawing him out has been undone by my careless words. _

_I spoke with Papa at length about my dilemma, and he, as usual, listened patiently, then recommended that I simply apologize to David and then ask specifically what upset him so that I may avoid repeating my mistake again. It seemed to be a sensible approach, and I had no objections to adopting it at the time. But I find myself reluctant to follow through now that I've had the opportunity to think about it (and second-guess my ability to carry it out, I suppose). I wonder if I'm making too much of the situation; as I mentioned, David hasn't acted offended or done anything resentful in response; my unhappiness stems from a loss of openness in our friendship rather than from any kind of unpleasant reaction on his part. Margaret suggested that if he's sensitive enough to be hurt by the type of innocent (if untimely) remark I made, perhaps he's not the kind of friend worth keeping, but I can't bring myself to agree with that assessment (though she's usually a perceptive judge of character). _

_I suppose what I fear most is making things worse. I know that the fault of the matter lies with me, and I wish that I could give a good answer for why I said what I did, but I can't come up with a reasonable defense for myself. It was simply carelessness, throwing out words without first thinking about them. And it just so happens that David's approach to speaking is exactly the opposite of mine. He is careful and deliberate and intentional. He doesn't prattle on the way I do. And I suppose I'm afraid that if I try to broach the subject of our unfortunate conversation and my insensitive remarks without being able to give a reason for them, it will only highlight how truly thoughtless I am. If I say nothing, we can continue our friendship civilly enough, and I'll simply try not to repeat my mistake in the future. But if I bring it up, there's a chance that it will only confirm whatever dubious opinion he may have formed of me since the incident took place. _

_Ju, you know how much my friends mean to me and how much I (probably inordinately) strive to maintain my closeness with them. If you were in my situation, what would you do? Would you let the situation pass, and simply determine to do better the next time? Or would you confront the issue head-on at the risk of appearing even more careless than before in the hope that perhaps you could reach a greater understanding and heal the rift you unintentionally caused? _

_This letter will not reach you before I've had to make my decision; David is coming for tutoring tomorrow evening, and I've only the next several hours to determine what my approach will be, but I would still be eager to hear your answer, as I'll want to know, even in retrospect, what my thoughtful older sister would have done (though of course you would have never gotten yourself into such a predicament in the first place). _

_Thank you, as always, for humoring your silly second-youngest sister and for patiently dealing with all of the scrapes she seems to get herself into on a regular basis. She is much better now than she was in years past, but there is still ample room for improvement, and she is thankful to have both a listening ear and a worthy example to emulate in you. _

_With appreciation,_

_Sadie_

Setting down her pen, Sadie carefully blew on the letter, then folded it up and placed it in an envelope, sealing it up and setting it on the little end table by the door so that she could take it to the post office the next day. She returned to the writing desk to claim her candle, then slowly made her way back to the bedroom, mulling over the decision that she would have to make for the following night.

* * *

It was late in the evening as Davey made his way home after the celebration at Jacobi's. The moon was high in the sky, the streets were nearly deserted, and as he drew near the Becker tenement, he saw that nearly all of the windows were dark, most of the residents having retired for the evening. A light was still on in the landlord's apartment window, however, and Davey found himself wondering why the family would be up so late, but he supposed that when you were in charge of the entire complex, there was always something that needed to be taken care of, regardless of the time.

A light was flickering in the window of his family's apartment, too.

Climbing the stairs to the apartment on the second floor, Davey pulled his key from his pocket and quietly let himself in. A single lamp was glowing in the kitchen area, its flame slightly dimmed, and as expected, his mother was seated at the table reading by the light of her tiny flickering candle.

"Did you have a pleasant time with the newsies?" she asked, marking her spot and closing up her book.

"It was...interesting," Davey answered truthfully. _Pleasant_ wouldn't have been an applicable word. He took a seat at the table by his mother, knowing that it had been a few days since they'd really talked and that she would want to check in (and furthermore, he found himself wanting company, though he didn't really want to talk about the gathering with the newsies).

"Are you glad you went?" came his mother's follow-up question.

Davey gave her a wry smile. It hadn't been an entirely voluntary decision. The plan had been to stay home that evening and to get to work on another one of Mr. Becker's projects, but when his mother had caught sight of the newsies outside the apartment, and when she'd heard Davey's reluctant explanation for why they were waiting for him (despite the fact he'd clearly informed the group that he wasn't planning to return with them), she'd urged him to take the night off and to go enjoy himself, pressing some money into his hand and giving him a little push towards the door. He'd gone out unenthusiastically, still unsure of what he was going to do, but the instant he'd stepped outside the apartment, the door had clicked shut behind him, and that was all the encouragement Race and the rest of the newsies had needed to force him into coming along with them to Jacobi's.

"I'm glad I went," he answered finally. He _was_ glad he'd been there to help Crutchie offset the one-sided tension between the irritated Race and the tardy Jack, but it hadn't been the most enjoyable experience, and he'd found himself feeling slightly apprehensive of how things would play out now that the strike was over and any resentment that had been suppressed for the sake of the cause could surface freely.

His mother must have sensed his unwillingness to discuss the matter further, for she didn't pry, but instead reached across the table to squeeze his hand. "I know it's not in your nature to rest on your laurels, David," she said gently, "but I do hope at some point you'll take the opportunity to celebrate what you and the newsies have accomplished. It's no small thing, and you were a large part of why the strike was a success."

"It was all of us, Mom," Davey said quickly, uneasy at the praise.

"Yes, but don't sell yourself short," she remonstrated. "They couldn't have done it without you." She took her hand away, smiling at him. "You've made both your father and me very proud."

"How's Dad doing, by the way?" Davey asked, jumping at the chance to change the subject. The last few days had been so full and he'd been out so much attending to the business of the strike that he'd hardly spoken to either of his parents. "Is he feeling better at all?"

"The last few days have been hard," his mother admitted. "You know how stubborn your father is; he wants to be up and about, but I fear he's making his leg worse by not resting as much as he should. He's also concerned about Les' performance in school - we both are, in fact."

"Did something happen?" Davey asked apprehensively. He knew that his brother wasn't happy about being sent back to the classroom, but he hadn't realized that the younger boy's academic output had been suffering.

"The schoolmaster sent a note home," his mother answered soberly. "He said that Les has been scoring poorly on his assignments and is falling behind the other students in his year. It seems that he hasn't been applying himself in class ever since you two dropped out to become newsies, even though Les has been back in school for several days now." She hesitated for a moment, then added, "We were going to discuss this with you tomorrow, David, but since we're on the subject, I might as well tell you. Your father and I strongly feel that it would be best for Les to remain in school rather than return to selling papers as we'd initially planned for once the strike settled. I know that losing his income will hurt a little, but your job with Mr. Becker will help offset that, and I'll take on a few more hours at the factory to compensate as well."

She gave him an apologetic look. "I know how much it's disappointed you not to be in school, David, and I'm sorry that you'll need to keep working for a while, but you've only one more year left and you've kept up with your studies so well that your father and I just thought it would be best to prioritize Les' academics right now. He needs the consistency."

"I understand, Mom," Davey assured her. "I didn't expect to go back to school until Dad went back to work, anyway, and I'd rather not have Les work either if he doesn't have to."

She gave him a grateful smile. "Your brother may not express it, but he's fortunate to have you. We all are. You've really helped to carry this family since your father's accident, and you've carried it well."

"I've had help, too," Davey insisted. "I couldn't have done it on my own." It was true. The events of the past several weeks had brought to the forefront the importance of coming together and learning to accept assistance when it was offered.

"You _have_ made several providential connections," his mother agreed. "Both with the newsies and with our landlord's family. I never thought that when we moved into the Beckers' tenement we'd end up forming such a quick association with them. They seem like such kind people, and you were right to make their acquaintance."

"That was Sadie's doing," Davey admitted, thinking back to how he'd stumbled into an unlikely friendship with the landlord's daughter despite his initial misgivings and their inauspicious start. "She's not the kind to give up quickly on making friends, I guess. I didn't make it easy for her at the beginning."

_And you're not making it easy for her now,_ came the unbidden thought.

Davey grimaced. He'd tried his best to be civil and friendly when he'd run into Sadie on Newspaper Row, but he had to admit that their exchange had been stiff and awkward, and though he could sense that she was uneasy about the current state of their friendship, she hadn't said anything about it, and he hadn't felt comfortable enough to broach the subject either. He knew that he was holding her at arm's length, and that she knew it too, but he couldn't discern why she seemed to be so affected by it.

Truth be told, Davey missed the easy simplicity of their friendship as well, and his mother's remark had brought to mind what he'd lost sight of over the past few days: that Sadie Becker had been his first friend in Manhattan, that she'd eased his transition into a new school and a new community, that she'd willingly sacrificed her time to help him on multiple occasions, and that he really, truly was indebted to her in so many ways.

He shouldn't have let her offhand remark get to him. He'd jumped to conclusions, and it wasn't fair to do that to her, especially not when she'd been so consistently kind to him all this time. He'd made the mistake of writing her off too quickly when they'd first met, and he didn't want to make that mistake again...

But still, the past was hard to shake.

Remembering his mother, Davey gave her an apologetic look, realizing he'd lapsed into silence as he'd been ruminating. She was used to him getting lost in his thoughts, however, and gave him an understanding smile.

"Even if you were a bit stand-offish with Sadie at the start, you seem to be getting along fine now," she remarked.

"More or less," Davey shrugged, shifting uneasily in his chair.

It hadn't been a lie...not exactly.

"Well, I'm glad you've been making friends in Manhattan," his mother said, tactfully changing the subject. "I know all the moving has been hard on you, David, but maybe this time it will turn out for the best. It already seems like there was a purpose for us being here at this time, and even though it's been difficult with your father's accident, there's good that's come out of it as well."

Davey nodded his agreement. It was true. The transition to life in Manhattan had been chaotic and full of unexpected surprises, but there had also been a number of unexpected boons that, as his mother had implied, were nothing short of providential.

"Well, it's late, and I know you've got to get up early tomorrow morning to get to the distribution center," his mother said, reaching over to blow out her candle, "but I'm glad you were able to spend some time with the newsies this evening." She rose from her chair, then leaned over to plant a gentle kiss on his forehead. "Sleep well, David."

"You too, Mom," he replied.

Instead of rising from his place to get ready for bed, Davey sat at the table for a while longer, settling into the silence and letting the time pass until he felt the first signs of weariness begin to creep in. A myriad of thoughts were still running through his head, but he did what he often found himself doing at the end of a very long and very full day: reminding himself that nothing productive came from staying up late to think, and choosing to lay aside the many unknowns that were currently preoccupying his mind as best he could.

Answers would come soon enough, perhaps even on the following day, and in the meantime, he ought to try to get some rest.


	56. The Long and Short of It

**Disclaimer: **This is a non-commercial work of fanfiction. Anything recognizable from _Newsies_ belongs to Disney and not to me.

* * *

Chapter 56: The Long and Short of It

The faint chime of the church bells in St. Peter's rang through the stillness of the night, and Race flopped over in bed, rubbing his eyes in frustration.

It was 4:00 in the morning, and he hadn't slept a wink.

He wasn't surprised. He'd gone to bed hot under the collar without having a chance to vent his frustrations, and that never ended well where his sleep was concerned.

Deciding that trying to get any shut-eye at this point was a waste of time, Race rolled out of bed, grabbed his cigar and a pack of matches from the nightstand he shared with Albert, then stole out of the bunk room, his light footsteps hardly making a sound as he passed by his brothers who were all in various degrees of repose.

Making his way down the stairs, he fumbled his way through the dark to Kloppman's desk until he located the doorstop that the elderly superintendent of the lodging house kept tucked behind the front counter. The entrance to No. 9 Duane St. would be locked at this time of night, but even in his sleep-deprived state, Race was clear-headed enough to remember to prop the door open so that he wouldn't be stuck outside.

The early-morning air was cool and soothed his ire somewhat, and Race ambled over to a cluster of barrels several yards away, casually leaning against them as he lit his cigar.

He hadn't had a quiet smoke to himself like this in weeks.

A bit of residual obligation lingered; he knew that he'd left the bunk room unattended, something he'd resisted doing for the duration of the strike, but now that Jack and Crutchie were back, he wasn't the only responsible party in the lodging house anymore, and he could come and go as he pleased.

Race wouldn't have admitted it to anyone, but the last few weeks he'd felt trapped - trapped by his unasked-for authority, trapped by the burden of being answerable for the decisions he made, trapped by the seriousness that was required to do the job but felt completely unnatural to him...

...trapped by the constant reminders that he wasn't Jack - and could never be Jack - to the rest of the boys.

The smoke from his cigar curled lazily into the air, illuminated by the waning moonlight, and Race's expression settled into a sullen frown.

The persistent internal comparison to Jack wasn't something he'd expected to come up against during his brief stint as de facto leader. None of the boys had really brought it up - there had been a few questioning looks and offhand remarks early on about some of Race's decisions, but the newsies had generally accepted his directions without protest. Yet as the strike had worn on and Race had been forced to make decision after decision, he'd found himself inwardly questioning his choices at times.

It was mostly in the small things - who should go up to the rooftop when the funds for the lodging house fees ran low, whether or not they could spare some money to buy a couple of meagre meat pies to share for the purpose of lifting their flagging spirits, if Race should stop to cheer up one of the boys who seemed to be dragging behind or to focus on the group as a whole - but the constant necessity of having to make these kinds of choices grated, and it had taken more of a toll on Race than he'd let on.

Well, he was done with all that, he reminded himself. Jack was back, and things would return to normal soon.

If only he could figure out a way to neutralize his residual frustrations towards the newsie in question...

Normally, a visit to Sheepshead and day betting on the horses would be enough to restore his good humor (if he won) or at least redirect his dissatisfaction (if he lost). But the strike had depleted what little cash reserve he'd had, so blowing his dough at the track wasn't an option.

Maybe a visit to Brooklyn, then…

Before he could ponder the possibility further, his thoughts were interrupted by the sound of voices speaking on the rooftop.

Jack and Crutchie.

They were too far away for Race to overhear what they were saying, but he knew that they were probably checking in as they often did in the early hours of the morning. (It wasn't the first time he'd snuck outside for a smoke and had taken notice of their conversation). The two newsies probably had a lot to catch up on after a long two weeks of separation.

Race puffed on his cigar.

His conversation with Crutchie the evening before had been wearying and unpleasant, but thankfully Race had been saved from having to divulge any compromising information about Jack by the arrival of the newsie leader himself, who had come barreling around the corner full-speed, apologizing for showing up late to the party. Crutchie had greeted him with a grin, warm and welcoming, and Race had slapped a smile on his face as well before the three of them had made their way back to Jacobi's, where a rousing chorus of shouts greeted Jack's arrival.

Things had pretty much progressed as Race had envisioned after that - the jokes and the chatter had flowed freely, and Jack was back in his element with most of the boys jostling and bantering with him as though he'd never left. A few, Race noticed, still seemed to hang back a little, but most appeared to have forgotten Jack's absence over the past few weeks and his brief talk of leaving for Santa Fe. Crutchie, too, was the center of attention, all of the newsies happy to have him back in their company, certainly a little worse for wear, but for all appearances strong and unbroken in spirit despite the ordeal of the past two weeks. Even Davey, as sour as he'd been about the whole "party" business in the first place, had attempted to make the best of the situation, joining in on the revelry in his own tentatively cautious way.

Ironically, Race had found himself to be the only one not at ease. He'd ordered his usual - salami and Swiss - then had proceeded to dispatch the sandwich with hardly a word to anyone. Artie had tried to draw him into conversation, but Race had brushed him off and had spent the rest of the evening silently brooding at the edge of the group.

The party had gone late, only breaking up when Jacobi had ordered them out so that he could close up for the night, and the newsies had poured out of the deli and onto the street, heading towards the lodging house and calling out goodbyes as they parted ways with Davey. Race had held on to his taciturnity the entire way back and had avoided speaking much when they'd arrived at the lodging house, citing a headache to any who'd asked. He'd gone to bed, only half-heartedly hoping for any sleep, then had tossed and turned until he'd roused himself from bed upon hearing the bells tolling at St. Peter's.

The sound of the voices on the rooftop again reached his ears, and Race wondered idly if Jack had told Crutchie about everything that had transpired over the past two weeks, or if Crutchie had taken the initiative to ask. In either case, he hoped that the truth was out now so that everyone else didn't have to tread carefully around the subject anymore. It really wasn't anyone's story to tell but Jack's.

Snuffing out his cigar, Race slowly made his way back to the entrance of the lodging house. It was probably almost 5:00 a.m. by that time, and Jack (he assumed) would be giving the wake-up call within the hour, so he ought to head back to the bunk room before any of the boys got up for the day. A few of them - Jojo and Mush in particular - were notoriously early risers, and he didn't want to have to explain his absence to them (though he suspected that some of the newsies knew about his occasional truancies anyway).

After carefully shutting the lodging house door and returning the doorstop to its place behind Kloppman's counter, Race stole back up the stairs to the bunk room, slipping quietly back into bed and tucking his cigar and matches under his pillow (Albert had been especially quick-fingered lately, and Race wasn't in the mood to deal with his pilfering).

He rolled over on his back and tucked his arms behind his head, staring at the worn wooden boards of the bunk above him, and after several minutes passed, he found himself feeling more settled and even a little bit drowsy.

He had just managed to drift into a light and gentle sleep when Jack's bellowing voice suddenly shattered the silence of the bunk room as he sounded the morning wake-up call.

* * *

Davey tucked his stack of newspapers into his newsboy bag and settled the load on his shoulder, thinking to himself that maybe he ought to try a new selling spot that day - not that he'd ever really established himself in a particular location; his first two days on the job he'd sold close to the distribution center simply because it had been convenient, and the day the strike concluded he hadn't had to walk far before people had snapped up his papers, but today he knew that his wares were unlikely to move so quickly, so he'd have to take the initiative if he wanted to sell all fifty copies of _The World_ in his bag.

He watched the rest of the newsies as they headed off, joking and laughing with each other and shouting out exaggerated headlines as they went. Race seemed to be dragging behind the others, not his usual buoyant self, and Davey wondered if he ought to jog over and ask the gambler if he'd slept all right the night before, but before he could do so, a man flagged him down for a paper, and by the time Davey had completed the sale, Race was gone.

Surprisingly, the morning edition moved fairly easily, and Davey was able to sell his quota just before noon with only a little effort. He'd ended up meandering aimlessly through the busier streets of the neighborhood, familiarizing himself with landmarks and with the selling spots of the newsies he saw along the way and peddling his own papers as he went.

Most of the boys ate their lunch on the job, though some regularly took a break at Jacobi's, and Davey found himself wandering towards the deli partially out of habit and partially hoping that Race would be there so that he could check in on him. He knew he was probably being overly-anxious and that the other newsie would likely balk at any display of concern, but something had felt off that morning. He couldn't tell if it was his own lingering dismay from the uneasy celebration at Jacobi's the night before, or if he was accurately discerning that something was wrong with the gambler, but either way, it couldn't hurt to ask a few well-meaning questions.

Opening the door to the deli, Davey saw that Race, indeed, was there, sitting at a corner table, nursing his complimentary glass of water and finishing up the remains of a sandwich. He wasn't alone, though; one of the ex-scabs, Artie, was sitting with him, grinning from ear to ear as Race regaled him with what sounded like one of his outlandish stories.

Davey ducked out of the deli, reasoning that his friend had company and seemed to be acting normally enough. He didn't want to intrude on the conversation, especially when he wasn't planning to buy lunch anyway and wouldn't be staying long.

Making his way back towards the distribution center, Davey found a spot to sit down and pulled out the food his mother had packed him for that day. He finished eating quickly, then walked the remaining few blocks to the circulation gate, which was just opening as he arrived for the release of the afternoon edition.

Hopeful that he'd be able to replicate the success he'd enjoyed that morning, Davey purchased fifty more papers, then set off, calling out headlines as he walked.

Reality hit hard that afternoon.

He struggled to sell his papers, unable to move a single copy for over a quarter of an hour despite the fact that the afternoon edition was hot off the presses. And the hours that followed weren't any better - everywhere he went he seemed to run into another newsie who had already staked out the spot, or he found himself in a "dead" area where no one was interested in the headlines he was hawking. As the afternoon wore on, the weight of his still-well-stocked newsboy bag seemed to get heavier and heavier, and Davey found his discouragement growing.

Two weeks of being on strike hadn't done anything to make him a better newsie, and his selling technique was just as awkward and forced as ever. But though the reality of his ill-suitedness for the job was rushing back with unwelcome clarity, he refused to give in and sell back his papers for the day. He kept walking, further than he'd ever explored up to that point, telling himself that if he could just find the right spot, he'd make up for the lost time.

The sun was beginning to dip low in the sky, the late afternoon shadows stretching across the street, when he stopped for a moment to count the papers left in his newsboy bag.

He let out a breath of frustration. Over half of the papers he'd purchased remained in his bag. That entire afternoon he'd sold...just over twenty.

It was a little humiliating, especially after the success he'd enjoyed immediately following the strike (though he supposed he should have known things wouldn't always be that easy), but he'd walked so far at this point that he knew if he didn't turn back soon he wouldn't be able to make it to the distribution center to sell back his papers before Weasel and the Delanceys left for the day.

So he started back.

_You'd better find a way to make this work_, he told himself. One day of poor selling wouldn't put his family on the street, but if he didn't get a handle on things soon, they would all feel it. He wasn't cut out to be a newsboy - the demands of the profession neither showcased his abilities nor capitalized on his strengths (if anything, they only magnified his weaknesses) - but a newsboy was what he was, and that was the long and short of it. He _had_ to figure out a way to get his feet under him.

He came to a busier part of town and began calling out headlines again as he walked, but before he'd gotten far, his attention was suddenly caught by a girl darting across the street several yards in front of him. She was a brunette and rather petite with her hair pinned up under a jaunty-looking hat, and for a brief moment, Davey thought that he recognized her.

_Sadie?_

The girl made it to the other side of the street, but as she began walking towards him and he got a better look, he realized that she was not, in fact, the landlord's daughter. He must have had her in the back of his mind, knowing that he was due to show up for tutoring that evening.

If there was one thing he was looking forward to even _less_ than selling back his papers, it was his study session with Sadie. He was grateful that he'd be able to get started on catching up with his school work (he was a bit behind since the busyness of the last several days hadn't left him time for anything but matters pertaining to the strike), but he wasn't sure how the awkwardness that had settled between them would affect things, and though he harbored no ill will towards the girl in question, he didn't really want to see her either.

Trying his best not to think about it, Davey continued calling out headlines. He managed to make a few more sales on his way back to the distribution center and hurried through the circulation gate just as Oscar was getting ready to close it for the day. The surly Delancey brother processed Davey's returned papers without a word, counting the change out quickly and then shoving the coins across the counter. As soon as Davey set foot outside of the distribution center, Oscar shut the gate behind him.

The walk home was not a happy one. He wasn't going back empty-handed, but he hadn't made nearly as much as he'd needed to, and the dreadful thought that the next day could bring about a similar lack of success gnawed at him. It wasn't just the fact that he hadn't been able to move the day's allotment that troubled him; it was the sobering realization that tomorrow, and the next day, and the next day, he would have to hit the streets again and repeat the humbling process of devoting himself to a task he was both ill-suited for and not inclined to do. He knew that he didn't really have a choice, and that the only way to get better was to keep doing it...but that didn't make the prospect feel any less daunting.

As he drew near the Becker tenement, he found his thoughts suddenly returning to Sadie. Here was a girl who had willingly applied herself to tutoring him, something she (by her own admission at least) was not well-suited for and took no personal interest in. But she'd done it voluntarily and without a word of complaint, though she'd regularly joked about the irony of their situation:

_It's really too bad that you're stuck with the least academically-inclined student in class as your tutor, Davey, but I'm sure your above-average intelligence will more than make up for my above-average lack of aptitude. _

_I'll have you know that I paid extra attention in class today - in fact, you'd be proud to hear that I only caught myself daydreaming twice, and managed not to get caught by our schoolmaster either time, though whether I retained any of the lesson or not remains to be seen. _

_You're probably bright enough to understand this without my help, but I'm sure that it must be dreadfully boring to catch on to things so quickly all of the time, so perhaps my convoluted instruction will provide a little challenge for that brilliant mind of yours. _

He hadn't thought much about the lighthearted remarks she'd made during their sessions (though of course he'd remonstrated them politely at the time), but as he pondered them now, he wondered if perhaps they had been subtle indications that she was well aware of her academic shortcomings, and that it had taken more fortitude for her to continue tutoring him than she'd let on. And yet she had done it, willingly putting herself in the humbling position of attempting to do something that was difficult for her and that she believed she was not good at...all for the sake of helping a friend.

His respect for her grew not a little at that realization.

He still wasn't sure if he wanted to see her and was anticipating their impending meeting with as much apprehension as before, but the reminder of what she'd done for him, and the quiet humility it had required, was comforting somehow, though he wasn't sure why.

_Careful, _he reminded himself. Nothing good would come from trying to wrap his mind around Sadie - she'd already confused him enough as it was.

Arriving at his family's apartment, Davey unlocked the door and stepped inside, glancing at the clock on the bookshelf as he hung his cap by the door. He'd have just enough time for a quick bite to eat before it would be time for him to head over to the landlord's office. Then, he would have just one last challenge to face before the day would finally come to a close.

* * *

**A/N**: Resolution. Next chapter. I promise. Thanks for reading - I'd love to hear what you thought!


	57. Restoration

**Disclaimer: **This is a non-commercial work of fanfiction. Anything recognizable from _Newsies_ belongs to Disney and not to me.

* * *

Chapter 57: Restoration

**A/N:** Hello, gracious readers. A quick word of caution before we dive into this chapter: please be advised that this installment contains reference to an emotionally painful memory from a character's past that may or may not be difficult to read depending on your personal threshold. It's still easily within the limitations of a "T" rating, and I've tried to handle it in a way that is fitting to both the tenor of this story and the time period it's set in, while also keeping in mind that situations like the one referenced here would have been regarded differently in the 1890s than they are now.

Emotional intensity in Something Worth Winning isn't anything new, and I haven't prefaced earlier installments with a warning because they took place within the context of the canon narrative that we're all familiar with. But since this is uncharted territory where you don't know what's coming next, I wanted to be extra cautious and give you a heads up in this case. If you've been fine with this story so far, you'll probably be fine with this chapter, but if you have any concerns, please feel free to PM me, and I can give you a summary of what this chapter entails so that you can assess for yourself whether or not you want to read it. It's a bittersweet installment with some tough moments, but I can also tell you that it ends happily, and my hope is that the purpose of the pain that's disclosed will be apparent as the story goes on, if not by the end of this chapter.

All right, I think I've said enough for now. Here we go!

* * *

After dinner, Davey made his way up to the third floor of the tenement, his schoolbook and slate in hand, taking the steps slowly, one at a time.

_Relax_, he told himself. _It's just a tutoring session with Sadie, the same thing you've been doing on and off for the past two weeks. Just get through it, and then you can have the rest of the night to yourself. _

He arrived at the landlord's office and knocked on the door.

Abby answered it. "Hi, David," she said, opening the door so that he could step inside. "Sadie's on her way over, but in the meantime, look at what I got my hands on at McNally's!" She scurried over to her reading chair, kneeling down to pull a stack of books out from underneath. "They had a sale - half off - and I've been saving my allowance, so I ended up coming home with a bundle!"

Davey walked over and knelt down beside her, examining the spoils. "_The Merry Adventures of Robin Hood...Black Beauty...A Journey to the Center of the Earth_ \- great selections, by the way - _Tom Sawyer...The Jungle Book - _Abby, _I_ haven't even read that one!"

"Kipling's already written a sequel," she informed him.

"Guess I'm pretty behind." Davey gave her a smile. "I'll have to work on that."

"Well, you're practically an adult, so you've got other things on your mind," Abby stated with the knowing air of a nine-almost-ten-year-old.

"I'm pretty sure I'll never get too old to enjoy a good story." Davey carefully set the books back down, feeling a little wistful. Stories like these reminded him of his childhood, when things had been just a bit simpler.

Abby regarded him for a moment, then picked up _The Jungle Book. _

"Here," she said, holding it out. "You can borrow it. I have enough to keep me busy for a while."

Davey hesitated. It was on the tip of his tongue to refuse the offer - he really didn't have much time for reading, after all, and even if he did, he probably ought to be reviewing his schoolbooks or studying something practical - but he instinctively knew that this was an overture of friendship and not just a book being offered, so he found himself accepting it.

"Thanks, Abby." He smiled. "I'm sure I'll enjoy this. And if you want, you can come over and take a look at my collection too sometime. It's not very big, but you'd be welcome to borrow anything you haven't read yet." He gestured to the book sitting on top of her stack of recent acquisitions. "In fact, if you end up liking _Tom Sawyer,_ I've got another one of Twain's books at home that I'd be happy to lend you. It's called - "

The door of the office opened, and Sadie appeared.

"We can talk more some other time," Abby offered quietly, giving Davey a conspiratorial half-grin. "Our remarks about reading will probably bore my sister to tears." Without further ado, she plucked _Black Beauty_ from the pile of books and settled herself into her armchair, eager to begin the story.

Davey rose, turning to make his way over to the table where Sadie was setting down her school book and slate. "I'm sorry I made you wait, Davey," she apologized. "I had to finish up something for Papa."

"It was no trouble," he replied, taking a seat at his usual spot. "Abby kept me company."

They launched into the evening's lesson without further preamble, Sadie seemingly preoccupied and noticeably more subdued than usual, and Davey equally reserved and hesitant. It reminded him of the stilted awkwardness of their first few meetings. The lesson, however, passed by easily enough, conversation coming easier now that there was something factual and concrete to discuss, and before Davey knew it, they had covered all of the material slated for discussion that evening, and Sadie was wrapping things up.

"If you'd be free to stay a little later tomorrow, I think we should be able to get through the remaining material," she said, closing her book. "You'll be caught up in no time."

"Tomorrow will be fine," Davey answered. "And thank you. I'd be desperately behind if it wasn't for your help." There was more he could have said, but he reminded himself that the less said the better, so he too closed up his book, set it on top of his slate, and got up from the table, making sure to retrieve _The Jungle Book_ as he rose.

"I'll see you tomorrow night, Sadie," he said, giving her a polite nod. "Thanks again." He glanced over to the corner of the office where Abby was engrossed in her book. "Will you tell Abby I said goodbye?" he added. "I don't want to interrupt her reading."

"Of course." Sadie glanced up at him, and for a moment she looked like she was about to say something, but instead she dropped her gaze, brushing at her skirt. He wondered if he ought to try to break the tension, but she didn't meet his eyes again, so he slowly made his way towards the door, and when she didn't speak, he quietly let himself out of the office.

He was just about to start down the steps when the door behind him opened suddenly, and Sadie's voice called out to him.

"Davey, wait."

He stopped in his tracks, turning around to face her as she slipped out of the office and joined him in the hallway.

"I didn't want to put you on the spot in front of Abby," she began, looking up at him hesitantly, "but I need to talk to you. I want to apologize for what Margaret and I said on the way to the park earlier this week." Her voice was grave, and her hands were clasped in front of her as though she was trying to give herself the courage to get the words out as she added, "It wasn't kind of us to talk about you that way."

"It's fine," Davey said quickly. "I'm not upset."

"It _wasn't_ fine," Sadie insisted. "I saw the look on your face afterwards, and I know that something we said hurt you." Her voice softened slightly. "I wish that you would talk to me about it."

Was he ready to open up to her and have that conversation? Here in the hallway? Now?

"It's nothing," he heard himself saying. "It just - it caught me off guard, that's all. But it's not important." He gave her a forced smile and was about to turn and start down the stairs when she took a step forward and lightly caught his arm.

"It _is_ important," she asserted. "It's important to me. Impulsiveness is a fault of mine, and I know that my thoughtless words that day were just a part of that, but I'd like to think that I'm not so intractable that I cannot learn from a mistake." She dropped her hand. "I don't want to hurt you again."

He wasn't sure if it had been her gentle touch or the note of pleading in her voice that made him turn around, but he found himself reluctantly abandoning his plan of departure.

Seeing that he wasn't going to run, Sadie said quietly, "I know that Margaret and I had no reason to be talking the way we did, but I can assure you that any remarks we've made about you in your absence have not been unfavorably intended. I'd only asserted to her on an earlier occasion my belief that you had more to say than you let on, and I wanted her to concede my point. But it was a childish thing to do. I hope that you can forgive me for my insensitive words."

She looked up at him, and he felt himself wanting to respond to her appeal, but he couldn't come up with what to say, and after another moment of tense silence, Sadie looked away.

"I'm sorry for keeping you this long, and I'll let you go now," she murmured, "but I just wanted you to know that I _am_ sorry." She looked over at the landlord's office. "I started our acquaintance off on the wrong foot with my carelessness," she said, gesturing to the door and its still new-looking coat of paint, "and it seems that I'm still learning how to not let that carelessness spoil things." She smiled tersely. "Perhaps if you'd known our association would cause you such trouble, you'd have thought twice before bringing up the first month's rent that day."

It was a lighthearted, facetious statement, and he could tell that she was trying to lessen the tension with the self-deprecating humor that he'd seen her employ before, but he could hear the touch of sadness behind it, and it distressed him. For her to even _think_ that he could possibly be troubled by their acquaintance when nothing could have been further from the truth was intolerable...but what could he say?

_Say something,_ he told himself. _Anything!_

But before he could manage it, Sadie turned away. "Goodnight, Davey," she said, stepping towards the door.

_Say __**something**__, you nitwit!_

"Wait!" he blurted out. Sadie paused, her hand just above the doorknob. "You haven't caused me trouble," he said, falteringly trying to get the words out before she walked away completely misconstruing how he felt. "You were my first friend here in Manhattan, and I don't think I've ever thanked you for that. You've always been kind to me, and it wouldn't be right for me to hold that one conversation against you. That's not what I was trying to do. It's just that I..."

He broke off suddenly, unsure of whether or not he wanted to explain the reason for why the comments on the way to the park had affected him so much. It was a ridiculous reason, in fact. He should have known better than to associate Sadie and Margaret's remarks with what had happened to him in the past. It had been just a fleeting incident anyway, and there was no reason why it should have affected him so much. The less that was said about it the better.

Still...if he wanted to make things right, he probably ought to give Sadie an explanation.

"I had a bad experience at one of my previous schools involving someone making a wager," he said slowly. "When Margaret mentioned you betting on me being a talker, it just brought up some of those memories. That's all." He gave her an apologetic look. "I didn't mean to be so obvious about it, or to make you feel bad. There wasn't anything wrong with what you said."

The troubled look on her face told him that she didn't believe it.

Davey rubbed the back of his neck, trying to figure out how he could convince her that she wasn't at fault. "My family's moved a lot, Sadie," he elaborated, the growing desire to relieve her distress causing him to override his fear of self-disclosure. "Five times total in the last twelve years. I've always been the quiet new kid, and it's always been hard for me to fit in. The last school I was at - the one before my family moved here - was the worst."

"Was that the school where you had your bad experience?" she asked, almost timidly.

He nodded. "Yeah." The memories were still fresh, fresher than he wanted them to be. Fresher than they should have been.

"What happened?" She sounded almost afraid of the answer, but clearly something had made her ask it. "You don't have to tell me if you'd rather not...but I just want to understand."

Davey hesitated.

"I'm sorry, that was an impertinent question," Sadie said quickly, noticing his discomposure. "I didn't mean to make you uncomfortable."

He'd never told anyone about what had happened. He'd built a wall around the memories, bottled up the feelings as much as he could, and had moved forward. Even if he'd wanted to talk about it, he doubted he could have communicated his thoughts in any kind of coherent fashion, so he'd kept quiet and had reasoned that, with time, the unpleasant memory would fade and the pain would resolve itself. But clearly something about it must have stuck with him if it still managed to unsettle him so much.

She would probably think him ridiculous if he told her. But if she knew...would she finally realize that she wasn't to blame for his irrational reaction? Was the risk of appearing completely absurd worth it if it would make her feel absolved of the guilt that she was unfairly carrying?

"It was during my second week of school," he heard himself saying. "My family had just moved, and I was still adjusting to things. I hadn't made friends yet, so during the lunch recess I would read out back behind the schoolhouse."

He could picture the place as vividly as if he'd seen it yesterday - the quiet coolness of the spot that he'd found on the side of the building, the worn wooden bench he'd set his lunch on, the bright green patches of ryegrass blowing in the breeze, the muffled sound of his classmates socializing in the schoolyard out front...

Despite the fact that he'd been the perpetual new kid in class for most of his life, at all of the previous schools he'd attended, he'd always found a few good friends. It usually took him a little longer to feel comfortable (he'd often envied Les' ability to immerse himself in a new social setting with no apparent effort), but eventually he would find two or three classmates whom he enjoyed and whom he would contentedly spend the rest of his short time with before his family inevitably pulled up stakes to move again.

But he'd had trouble for some reason at this particular school. Maybe it was because the pupils in his year were already close friends and didn't feel the need to get chummy with an outsider. Maybe it was because he and Les, with their clean but worn clothing and simple lunches were noticeably poorer than the others in their class. Maybe it was because he had been too quiet and reserved, and his shyness had been misconstrued as something else. Or maybe it had been for another reason altogether. At any rate, he'd overheard more than a few uncharitable remarks being made about himself (spoken as though he was not present but clearly loud enough for him to hear), and these remarks were enough to remind him that he was different, more different than he usually found himself to be at a new school, and that those differences weren't going to help him any.

So he'd defaulted to his tendency to clam up whenever he was uncomfortable, and had shifted his aim from making friends to not ruffling any feathers. He'd reasoned that it was better to go unnoticed than to make enemies, and he knew that he could get by until the next time his father's job situation necessitated another relocation. With any luck, he'd hoped, it would be sooner rather than later. And though the comments had stung, things could have been worse - an early growth spurt had made him taller than the majority of his classmates for most of his life, so he'd been fortunate enough not to have experienced physical bullying of any kind, and by contrast, a few unkind remarks shouldn't have mattered (at least, that was what he'd told himself).

Such was the uneasy equilibrium he'd found himself settling into on that day behind the schoolhouse. Reading had become an escape for him, a temporary relief from the challenges of real life, and he'd looked forward to it every day.

"Anyway, " he continued, reminding himself that he needed to speak aloud for Sadie's benefit, "one day I was out there, reading my book, when a bunch of my classmates showed up, and one of them - this girl - came up to me. I didn't realize it until later, but they'd been talking beforehand, and I'm not really sure why, for some reason they'd made a bet with her that she wouldn't…" the words caught in his throat before he forced them out, "that she wouldn't kiss me." His voice lowered in embarrassment. "I guess they underestimated her, because...well, she won that bet."

The words sounded so simple coming out of his mouth, but it really hadn't been that simple.

He'd been surprised by the arrival of his peers, and hadn't known what to make of the poorly-concealed smirks on their faces. The girl had sidled over, coming to sit beside him on the bench, and had asked him what he was reading. He'd hesitantly replied, trying to reconcile the seemingly polite inquiry with the mocking look in her eyes, and had found himself nervously rambling about the book in question, pushing past the uneasy feeling that the query hadn't been sincere in the first place.

She'd interrupted him mid-sentence, shoving the book aside. "Looks like the quiet new kid can open his mouth after all," she'd taunted before grabbing him by the collar and leaning in.

He could still remember the dull thud of his book hitting the ground, the split second of confusion as her lips crashed into his, and the feeling of utter shock and bewilderment followed by the racing thought that _no, he didn't want this!_ and the urge to push her away, which was checked only by the vaguely-recalled principle he'd been brought up with: that he should never, under any circumstances, raise his hand against a girl.

The kiss had been rough and thorough and its conclusion had been marked by enthusiastic shouts from the onlookers as the girl rose and returned to her friends to be applauded for her audacity. Davey had been frozen, sitting there on the bench watching it all unfold, his mind trying to make sense of what had just happened and what he was hearing...

...and then he'd seen the money change hands. And that was when her actions and his classmates' remarks suddenly all fit together, when he'd realized that she'd done it for a bet, a bet involving him that he'd had no say in. A bet that she'd easily won. A bet that had left her with a handful of pocket change and had left him feeling confused and ashamed and even more alone than before.

After all accounts had been settled between his classmates, they'd left with barely a look in his direction, and he'd been the only one behind the schoolhouse again, sitting in stunned silence with his forgotten book at his feet. His thoughts had been jumbled and his emotions had been roiling and above all he'd been desperately trying to make sense of what would have caused them to do it...but he'd never come to a satisfactory conclusion.

It had taken all of his courage to return to the schoolroom when the lunch recess was over, to walk past his classmates and slide into his seat, head down, trying not to let his emotions show on his face even as he struggled to focus on the lesson. He'd had an exam that afternoon which he'd thoroughly prepared for but ended up failing miserably, and the sting of his poor performance had only compounded his anguish.

It had all just been a joke to them, a way of making their lunch recess a little more entertaining, something that they would forget about in a matter of days, if they hadn't forgotten about it already...

...but did they know that the quiet new kid who'd been on the receiving end of their insensitivity - who was already so painfully aware that he didn't fit in - wouldn't be able to forget, no matter how much he wanted to?

He'd gotten even more quiet after that, rarely speaking in class unless he felt that there was no other option, continuing to endure his classmates' verbal barbs without a word, and simply trying to make it one day at a time, pouring himself into his studies and attempting to ignore the rest. When his father had finally announced that the family would be moving to Manhattan, Davey had been immensely relieved. A new neighborhood meant a new school where he could start over again. And while moving was never easy and change always brought about a degree of unsettledness, he had tentatively hoped that it would be a turn for the better.

And that was where he now found himself, in a far different situation, facing a girl who might have been careless and impulsive at times, but whom he knew in his heart would never have done something so callous as his former classmates, even on her worst days.

"So yeah, that's what happened," Davey said quietly. "I never figured out why they did it. And I probably should have gotten over it a long time ago. But I just..." he paused, swallowing the lump in his throat. "I guess it just hurt a little," he concluded. "To know that I was so different that they didn't even see me as someone who had feelings. That I was just a joke to them."

He abruptly shook off the memories, forcing a laugh. "Anyway, it's ridiculous, right? None of that has anything to do with you. There's next to no connection between what happened to me and what you and Margaret said, and that's why you have nothing to apologize for, Sadie. It was just an irrational reaction on my part, and I shouldn't have let it get to me. It's past now, and it really doesn't matter." He gave her a hesitant smile. "Does that clear things up a bit?"

He'd hoped that the explanation would make her feel better, but instead she looked even more troubled than before.

"Sadie, what's wrong?" he asked quickly. "You know I'm not angry at you, right? Especially now that you know how absurd I was being."

"You weren't being absurd," she protested.

"Of course I was. It happened years ago."

"Davey, what happened to you - " she bit her lip, and he was surprised to see that she was so upset that she was struggling to complete her sentence. "It wasn't right," she finally finished, her voice heavy with emotion. "It doesn't matter how long ago it happened. It doesn't matter how different they thought you were."

He shrugged uncomfortably. "There's nothing that can be done about it now." This wasn't where he'd intended the conversation to go. He'd only meant to show her how uncalled for his response to her remarks had been; he hadn't intended for her to fixate on the incident from the past or on how it had made him feel.

An uneasy silence settled between them. Sadie continued to quietly brood, while Davey found himself conflicted over his impulsive decision to elaborate.

After what felt like hours, Sadie finally broke the silence.

"It makes sense why the careless words that were spoken on the way to the park would have affected you," she said slowly. "You had every right to be off-put by them, and you had every reason to be wary of Margaret and me after that. But I hope you know that we never meant to be unkind or to put you down, and that we didn't actually bet on anything concerning you." She looked up at him, serious and sad, and the compassion in her eyes touched something in him, made the protective wall he'd built around the memory crumble just a little.

"I didn't really think you had," he answered honestly. "And I understood why you said it. I know I'm different - quiet, I mean. Except for when I'm not." He gave her a slightly-embarrassed smile. "That's probably why most people don't know what to do with me, and why it takes me awhile to make friends whenever I move to a new school. It's actually been a lot easier this time, though. And that's because of you."

"I can't take credit for that," Sadie shook her head. "I may have introduced you to some of my friends, but they _do _like you for yourself, even though they haven't gotten to know you well yet. You and Les are both well spoken of at school, though perhaps our classmates are a bit more shy about approaching you than your brother." She gave him a tiny smile. "You might not realize this, Davey...but you're actually rather intimidating. It was quickly apparent that you were one of the brightest among us even after you'd only been in school for a few days, and after that you helped to lead the newsboy strike and had your picture in the paper..."

The possibility had never crossed his mind before. Intimidating? Him?

"I guess I never thought about it that way," he admitted.

"I'm just fortunate that I got to know you outside of school first," Sadie said, her smile growing slightly. "I'm sure I would have been just as awestruck as the rest of our classmates had I come to know you only through your academic performance and sudden rise to fame. I probably would have been equally incapable of approaching you and forming a coherent sentence for fear that I might say something foolish! But," she added, a bit teasingly, "since I had the advantage of meeting you _before_ all that, I've managed to remain immune to your prestige. I know what the rest of our classmates don't: that Davey Jacobs gets occasionally outwitted by his little brother and does laundry when he's preoccupied and looks completely ridiculous in a paint-stained shirt." Her smile was practically a smirk now. "All of that extra knowledge has humanized you just a bit."

The playful impishness that he'd come to associate with her was back, and it made him happy to see it, even if she _was_ poking fun at him.

"I doubt you would have looked much more dignified if our roles had been reversed and I'd spilled the paint on you," he remarked wryly.

"But you'd never do something as irresponsible and ridiculous as that," she pointed out. "You're much too sensible."

"That's what you think, Sadie." He gave her a small, tentative smile. "But I wouldn't bet on it."

The significance of his word choice was not lost on her, and he could feel the last bit of tension between them melting away.

"You _are_ a conundrum, Davey Jacobs," she murmured, suddenly sounding rather serious again, but he didn't miss the grateful look that she gave him or the way she visibly relaxed at his lighthearted statement. He was thankful that he'd finally managed to relieve her distress, and he realized that the uneasiness he'd been living with for the past few days seemed to have dissipated as well.

Clearly this friendship and its restoration meant more to him than he'd thought.

The conversation came to a lull again, but this time it was not an uneasy one.

"Well, I guess we should both be on our way," Davey said eventually. "You've got a full day of school ahead of you, and I've got a full day of selling."

"You're right, I suppose we should," Sadie agreed.

But neither of them moved.

After a moment, Sadie took a step towards the door. "I'll say goodnight, then," she offered. "I'm grateful that our temporary misunderstanding has been resolved." Her hand came to rest on the doorknob, but instead of opening it, she turned, and her eyes came up to meet his. "Thank you for trusting me enough to disclose what you did," she said quietly. "I'm sure it was difficult to revisit those unpleasant memories...but I know that you did it to help me understand." She paused for a moment, then added, "I know you probably don't want to discuss this further, and I don't want to press you...but I _do_ want you to know that you didn't deserve what happened to you, and that you weren't ridiculous at all for feeling the way that you did. You may be a bit of an enigma, Davey...but you are not a joke. Not in any sense of the word."

There was a gentle fierceness in her voice as that steely side of her - the one that he'd only glimpsed briefly on one or two occasions - showed itself for a moment, and Davey ducked his head, not knowing what to say but touched by her fervency on his behalf. "Thank you for caring enough to listen," he answered simply. He'd never told anyone about that day behind the schoolhouse, and he never would have imagined that he'd end up telling her (or that she would care so much about it), but though it _had_ been painful to recall the past, he found himself actually glad that he had done it. Someone else finally knew. He wasn't carrying that secret alone anymore.

Sadie smiled. "I'm glad you came to Manhattan," she said softly, and he wasn't sure if it meant that she was simply grateful he was no longer at the school that had caused him so much grief or if she had intended to convey something else altogether, but it didn't matter at the moment.

He knew that she cared. And that was enough.

After bidding Sadie goodnight, Davey walked slowly down the stairs and back to his family's apartment. He let himself in quietly, not sure if the rest of his family was already in bed for the evening. His parents had retired and were nowhere in sight, but Les was still up, already in his pajamas but sitting on the side of the bed, playing with a slingshot Finch had loaned him.

"Sure took you long enough," he remarked as Davey closed the door behind him. "Were you and Sadie canoodling? There's no way you were reviewing the lesson this whole time."

If it had been any other night, Davey probably would have responded to the rather inappropriate question with a stern lecture or a sarcastic remark, but he found himself too pensive to make a sharp retort that evening.

"We just had a lot to talk about, Les," he said, hanging his cap by the door and setting his slate and the books down on the kitchen table.

His brother gave him a disappointed look. "You're hopeless, David," he declared. "You spend multiple nights a week, _every_ week, practically alone with the girl you're sweet on, and you can't even make a move! You should at least try to impress her with all of that useless knowledge you have in your head. I'm not sure what else you have going for you."

"Sadie and I aren't alone," Davey reminded him. "Abby's always there, and Mr. Becker comes in and out all the time getting things from his office. Even if we were, that's not what our tutoring sessions are for, and I'm not sweet on Sadie - it's possible to just be friends with someone and to respect them and enjoy their company without having any romantic feelings attached."

"But you're always hanging around her, and you said she has a pretty smile!" Les protested.

"I do spend a lot of time with Sadie because she's tutoring me and we have some other things in common," Davey said calmly. "But that's all. And I was sleep-talking when I said that she had a pretty smile. I didn't know what I was saying."

"So you _don't_ think her smile's pretty?" Les demanded.

"That's irrelevant to our discussion," Davey replied. "Look," he continued, "I know this may be hard for you to understand, but I'm just telling you the truth. I don't want you to have the wrong idea about what's going on, all right?" He gave his brother a pointed look.

"You're hopeless," the younger boy repeated, flopping dejectedly onto the bed. It was far from the agreement Davey had been aiming for, but he could tell from Les' defeated tone that he knew his older brother's disclosure had been honest and that there was nothing for him to do now but to accept the truth. There _was_ a difference between appreciation and affection, after all, and Davey knew exactly what he was dealing with here.

Les would just have to get over his disappointment.

* * *

**A/N:** A lot in that chapter. Thanks for hanging in there with this plot point, gracious readers - resolution was a long time coming, but it's here now, and hopefully this additional context makes Davey's earlier reaction to Sadie and Margaret's words (and his hesitance in general) a little easier to understand. As always, I'd love to hear your thoughts if you're willing to share! Your feedback is an invaluable source of encouragement and inspiration to me.

And if anyone reading this is having one of those days where you're feeling discouraged because you're different, please know that you are important and valuable despite what others may say to the contrary. You are not a joke. You are not a mistake. You are here for a reason, and the world needs the good of what you uniquely have to offer.


	58. Finding Equilibrium

**Disclaimer: **This is a non-commercial work of fanfiction. Anything recognizable from _Newsies_ belongs to Disney and not to me.

* * *

Chapter 58: Finding Equilibrium

**A/N**: In this chapter, Sniper (who will be making an appearance in the later part of the installment) is based off of the OBC version of the character portrayed by Alex Wong for the sole reason that I thought some of the information on his trading card* would be interesting to work into this story.

*The Newsies trading cards were released to promote the musical during its run on Broadway. I don't personally own any, but I've stumbled across pictures of them here and there on the internet, and some of the background "biographical" information they contain is interesting. There are probably varying opinions on how much of this information should be considered canon (in general, I haven't stuck closely to it) and I don't see too many people referring to them as a source, but I'm including a little bit of it in this particular instance and just wanted to clarify which version of Sniper I'm using for this interpretation.

Sniper's trading card reveals that he is the "son of Sam Wah, who owns the laundry above Jacobi's Deli." My supplementary headcanon to this is that Sniper's parents are immigrants who came separately to the United States from China during the 1870s prior to the Chinese Exclusion Act. They met, married, and settled in Lower Manhattan where Sniper was born and Sam Wah opened his laundry (a popular type of business for the Chinese at the time due to the racial discrimination they faced which denied them entry into many other types of work). Sniper grew up speaking both Chinese and English, as his parents spoke mostly the former but insisted that he learn the latter to ease his adjustment and hopefully provide better opportunities for him in the future. For this reason, he sounds and acts just like many of his newsie brothers, but because his appearance clearly marks him as "different," he is occasionally the target of racial slurs and attempted bullying. This was what initially caused him to become so proficient with a slingshot - it was a skill learned primarily for self-defense, but he enjoys it as a pastime as well, often getting into friendly competitions with Finch when they aren't busy selling papers.

So there's your little bit of historical context and headcanon that will be informing this chapter. Please be forewarned that this installment touches on the issue of racism (albeit in a brief manner); I wrote it several months ago, so it's not a response to or a commentary on the important civil rights issues that have been brought to the forefront in the last few weeks, as meaningfully addressing those topics goes beyond the scope of this story (though I do believe that responding to and engaging with those things is important, if perhaps more clearly facilitated on other platforms).

Okay, that was another long author's note - thanks for reading - let's get to what you came here for.

* * *

In the days that followed, Davey found his friendship with Sadie settling into a satisfying equilibrium. The mildly confusing feelings that had plagued him before the strike's conclusion did not resurface, so he reasoned that they were behind him now, and he was happy to enjoy his association with the landlord's daughter free from any perplexing complications.

Sadie, for her part, remained as cheerful and teasing as ever, but he could tell that the heartfelt conversation that had taken place outside of her family's apartment had deepened their understanding in a way that he couldn't explain. There was an easy camaraderie between them now whenever they met by chance on the rooftop or around the city or during their tutoring sessions in the evenings, and Davey found himself feeling content and happy whenever they crossed paths, and it seemed that the feeling was mutual.

It was a relief to have one area of his life finally straightforward and settled.

The same could not be said for virtually every other aspect of his daily activities. Working as a newsboy continued to present its difficulties, and he'd had to adjust his ambitious initial quota of fifty papers down to forty, which really shouldn't have been that demoralizing (he'd started out at twenty, after all), but it felt like a setback, especially on the days when he couldn't manage to sell even that reduced stock. On a few occasions, he found himself stubbornly hawking the afternoon edition well into the evening, determined not to sell back his papers even though common sense told him that he ought to just give up and go home. He'd staunchly adhered to his convictions regarding "improving the truth" and hadn't ever resorted to fabricating a headline, but he had to admit that the thought was occasionally tempting on those days when it was getting dark and his stomach was growling in hunger and he still had a paper or two left to sell before his bag would be empty and he'd allow himself to turn towards home.

There was also the problem of how to approach what little "free" time he had when he wasn't selling. He'd only just begun to work his way down the list of Mr. Becker's odd jobs, and he knew that some of the bigger projects would require more attention and time to learn and complete, but it was difficult to find a way to balance those tasks with his schoolwork and tutoring and occasional family obligations.

And then there was the matter of the newsies.

It shouldn't have surprised him that there would be a little bit of fall-out once the strike ended and his role in their company changed. He hardly darkened the door of the lodging house anymore, meeting the newsies at the circulation gate instead, and he found himself drifting towards the fringes of the group on the rare occasion where he did join them for their communal gatherings. It wasn't that anyone treated him differently; they still greeted him heartily every morning, and he was still subject to their pushing and shoving and good-natured ridicule, but things felt different, and since he was less frequently in their company, he found himself missing out on most of the banter and joking that took place when the newsies were off duty.

Race occasionally called him out for "ditching" them to go home, which had irked Davey at first (he was going home to work his second job, after all, not to loaf around), but after a while he realized that it was Race's odd way of communicating to him that he was missed and that he mattered, so Davey took the backhanded compliment for what it was and even occasionally snarked back (that there was only so much of Race's presence he could tolerate in one day), and this delighted the rest of the newsies, who for whatever reason found such mild jabs to be thoroughly entertaining, probably for the mere reason that they were coming from him.

The other boys' heckling and well-meaning jokes did much to help offset his occasional feelings of isolation, but there was more to his detachment than just the loss of not being at the lodging house. His role in the group was now ambiguous; some of the younger newsies still occasionally looked to him for answers, and he found himself instinctively half-responding to their questions before remembering that he ought to be sending them to Jack or Race or Crutchie instead. He hadn't managed to carve out a new purpose among the newsies now that the strike was over, and not knowing what he could contribute was quietly disorienting.

He pressed on, however (there was really no other option), and tried his best to balance the competing demands on his time and his attention while eagerly availing himself of any opportunity to connect with the newsies in whatever small ways he could. Sometimes this took on the form of settling a dispute between two of the boys over how to pronounce one of the more complicated words in a headline. Sometimes it was simply being an extra set of hands or a listening ear.

On one unexpected day, it turned out to be the latter.

Davey was making his way down the street, about three-quarters of the way through selling his stack of the afternoon edition, when he caught sight of a scuffle out of the corner of his eye. A trio of unfamiliar boys had cornered a newsie in a narrow alleyway. They'd somehow gotten his bag of papers away from him, and copies of the publication lay scattered about in the dirt.

Turning towards the confrontation, Davey dodged his way past a few pedestrians and came to the mouth of the alley just in time to hear the newsboy speak up warningly.

"I ain't playin' - you'd better get lost if you know what's good for ya." He took a few defensive steps back, and Davey caught sight of his face, immediately recognizing the newsie's distinctive gray cap and thatch of black hair.

_Sniper._

One the bullies scoffed. "What'cha gonna do about it, Coolie?" His accomplices jeered, adding their own taunting insults, and Davey felt his indignation flare up at the racial slurs rolling off of their tongues. He took a step towards the group, but Sniper caught sight of him and gave a quick and imperceptible shake of his head. He didn't need any intervention at the moment, so Davey waited, thankful that the other boys hadn't seen him, and honestly not sure if what he'd do if it came to a fight, but knowing that he wasn't going to stand by and listen to his fellow newsie be mocked in such a way. He would respect Sniper's wishes and stay out of things for now, but he wasn't just going to walk away either.

"Hey, how'd you learn to speak English so good, anyway?" one of the ruffians asked.

Sniper ignored the question. "This is your last chance," he warned. "Get goin' before I make ya."

"Got a better idea, Coolie," the tallest one laughed. "Why don't you and the rest of your lousy Chinamen get on a boat and go back to where you belong?"

Sniper's eyes narrowed, but he didn't say anything until the bully closest to him took a threatening step forward. Quicker than a flash, the newsie's slingshot was in his hand, and then the offender was howling in dismay at the tiny projectile that had glanced with frightening accuracy off of his arm, leaving a red welt behind. His two cronies had barely a moment to register what had happened before they too felt the sting of the slingshot's barbs, and it only took another volley for the lot of them to take off running for the mouth of the alley, sparing Davey hardly a glance as they raced by him and down the street, disappearing from sight.

Davey made his way down the alley to where Sniper had already tucked his slingshot back into his knickers and was calmly bending down to pick up the papers that were lying in the dirt.

Davey knelt down to help him. "You all right?" he asked, reaching for a newspaper.

"Yeah," Sniper answered. He dusted off a copy of _The World_ and tucked it into his bag. "Nothin' I haven't heard before."

"You definitely sent them running," Davey observed, still trying to feel out how to approach the situation. He didn't know Sniper well at all - the other newsie seemed to be always in the background whenever the group was together, quiet and watchful, but not saying much. In fact, the words he'd spoken just moments ago were probably the most Davey had ever heard him say at one time.

"They've come after me before." Sniper shoved several more copies of _The World_ into his bag. "Seems like those nasty types always got a knack for pickin' out who's different and goin' after them."

Davey knew the truth of that statement only too well.

"Well, you did a good job of not letting them get to you," he remarked. "I know they're just words...but those names can sting."

Sniper gave him a shrewd look. "You sound like you know somethin' about that."

Davey smiled grimly. Indeed he did.

"What's it like for your family?" he asked, sensing that the other newsie had more to say despite his lapse into silence. "Has it been pretty difficult?"

Sniper shrugged, tucking the last copy of _The World _into his bag and slinging the tote over his shoulder. "Guess that depends on how you look at it," he answered. "People don't always treat us nice here, but we's makin' a livin' wage and we ain't starvin', so that's somethin'." He adjusted his cap on his head, then added, "My pa always wanted to own his own business, so I guess you could say he's livin' the dream in some ways."

"Your father owns a business?" Davey asked, intrigued.

"He runs the laundry above Jacobi's." Sniper answered. He rotated his thumb absently, then slowly opened and closed his hand, perhaps stretching his fingers after his recent use of his slingshot. The movement drew Davey's attention, and he noticed the rough patches on the other boy's hands.

"You must help with the family business," he guessed. "You don't earn those kinds of calluses just from hawking headlines."

Sniper glanced at him curiously. "You know somethin' about laundry?"

"A little," Davey answered. "It's a long story."

The other newsie seemed pleased. "Ain't exactly high-falutin' work, but you gotta have some stamina for it - the soap and hot water get to your hands real quick, and you gotta be strong to lift the wet clothes."

Davey nodded. "Do you work at the laundry after you finish selling?" he queried. Most of the newsies seemed to be free to relax or bum around once their admittedly long hours of selling papers were over, but maybe he wasn't the only one with a second job after all.

"Yeah," Sniper answered. "Usually help my ma with a few loads in the evenin' after dinner. It's a 'round the clock kinda thing if business is good that week. If it gets really busy, I'll go home after sellin' the morning edition and stay at the laundry the rest of the day."

"Is there a fairly consistent demand for your services?"

"Depends. Some folks won't support a business that's run by folks who don't look like them, but then there's others who are regular customers and don't care who does their laundry, long as it's done right."

"It must be tough when people write you off like that," Davey sympathized.

Sniper shrugged. "Sometimes it's tough. Could be worse, though. In other parts of the country they've murdered Chinese or forced 'em out of their homes." He paused briefly, looking a little sober, before quickly adding, "At least we ain't bein' treated like that here. The words is nasty, but they don't break no bones. I figure it's gonna be like that wherever you go - you get some good apples and some that's rotten to the core. Don't make it right what the bad apples do...but you gotta pick and choose your battles."

It wasn't a pleasant disclosure, but there was a composure to the last statement that didn't escape Davey's notice. Maybe it was because he was a little more sensitive about these things himself, or maybe it was because he still wasn't used to Sniper being so talkative, but he found himself appreciating the other boy's equanimity. There was a resilience there that couldn't have come easily.

Now that Davey thought about it, he realized that Sniper wasn't always at the lodging house or even with the rest of the newsies. He seemed to slip quietly in and out of the group like a shadow, and now it made sense why: he, like Davey, had another job, another family, another life fraught with its own challenges and responsibilities that he was quietly trying to juggle.

How many of the other boys were the same?

"Your family got a business, too?" Sniper asked, breaking into Davey's thoughts as they began walking slowly towards the street.

"No, but I do have a second job," Davey answered. Briefly, he filled Sniper in on his family's situation as they reached the mouth of the alley.

"Sounds tough," Sniper remarked. "Your folks must've been ready to toss you to the curb when we went on strike."

"They weren't too happy about it," Davey conceded, "but they gave me a chance to make it work. I'm grateful for that."

"Must be even _more_ grateful now that it's over."

"Yeah," Davey laughed. "I am." Oddly enough, that realization was exactly what he'd needed. It was too easy to get caught up in the challenges of adjusting to life after the strike, and while the intensity of those two weeks had been exhilarating and impactful and Davey knew he would never forget it, there was something about the return to normalcy that was good and right and maybe hopeful, even. He needed to remember that as exciting as it had been to lead the newsies and find a place of belonging among them, those friendships wouldn't stop with the strike. If anything, they would continue to develop, perhaps more slowly than before, but in unexpected and meaningful ways...just as they had through this serendipitous encounter.

"Well, guess we'd better get back to carryin' the banner," Sniper said, rolling his thumb again. He spat in his hand and held it out to Davey. "Thanks for stoppin' to check on me," he said. "I'll see you around, Davey."

Returning the gesture, Davey bid the other newsie farewell and then they parted ways, heading in opposite directions as they returned to peddling their papers. The remainder of the afternoon passed by quickly, and some time later, Davey found himself selling his last copy of _The World_ and heading home, his pocket pennies and his heart surprisingly content.

If he hurried, he thought, he'd still have a few hours to get in some work for his second job before the sun went down.

* * *

**A/N:** Sniper's mention of the past violence and hostility sustained by the Chinese "in other parts of the country" is referencing a few historical instances that took place during the late 1800s, notably the Rock Springs Massacre of 1885 and the Hells Canyon Massacre of 1887.

Racism - in any form and exercised against any group of people at any time - is an ugly thing. This issue isn't really touched upon in _Newsies _because it wasn't the aim of the narrative, but I chose to tie it into this story (albeit briefly) because it likely would have been a part of some of the newsies' experiences growing up during this time as the children of immigrants or as immigrants themselves, which meant that they wouldn't have only had to contend with the hardships of poverty but with the adversity of racism as well. (In case it wasn't abundantly clear, I also wanted to state that I in no way condone the use of the offensive name Sniper is called in this chapter).

Thanks for reading - please let me know what you thought of this installment!


	59. High Times and High Jinks

**Disclaimer: **This is a non-commercial work of fanfiction. Anything recognizable from _Newsies_ belongs to Disney and not to me.

* * *

Chapter 59: High Times and High Jinks

Race sauntered down the street in the direction of the newsboy lodging house, whistling as he went. The sun had barely begun its slow descent in the west, and the shadows were just beginning to lengthen, but there was still plenty of daylight left, and this pleased Race to no end.

Normally, he'd be about two-thirds of the way through selling his stock of the afternoon edition, but today he'd been lucky: he'd been able to move his wares quickly that morning and had exhausted his supply of papers well before noon, which meant that he'd had some time to kill, so he'd eaten an early lunch, and then had made his way over to the distribution center to wait for the afternoon installment of _The World_.

On his way there, he'd caught sight of Morris Delancey loafing around about half a block from his destination, and had decided on a whim to see if his luck would continue to hold. After all, he had nothing better to do, and the younger Delancey brother had looked a bit off his game. So Race had cordially invited him to sit down for a hand of poker. The newsies would have been astounded at the sight: one of their own kind taking up a seat opposite Wiesel's surly second nephew like they were friendly acquaintances and not adversaries who openly despised each other - but Race had learned long ago that Morris had a weakness for cards, and he'd plied this to his advantage, inveigling Delancey into the occasional game of poker and almost always coming out on top (though he let Morris win every once in a while, just to keep him hooked).

That day had been no exception.

Morris, true to form, had taken the loss in a rather unsportsmanlike manner, but in the end, he'd paid up, and the winnings were now jingling in Race's pocket along with the money he'd made from selling his papers.

He sometimes wondered if Morris really didn't have anyone else to play cards with - his losing record seemed to indicate that he didn't play often (or maybe he really _was_ all brawn and no brains). Was he truly that desperate? Oscar, Race knew, abhorred gambling - Morris had accidentally let that slip during one of their very first games - so maybe the younger Delancey brother only accepted Race's invitations due to a complete lack of other options. He certainly seemed to be intent on making sure that his brother didn't find out - he'd threatened on no uncertain terms to make Race's life a living nightmare if he ever mentioned a word of it, and Race had duly complied, more out of a desire to continue emptying Morris' pockets than anything else...but every once in a while it made him wonder what kind of existence the churlish Delanceys led when they weren't throwing their weight around at the distribution center.

The lodging house came into view, and Race jogged across the street, his pockets pleasantly heavy with his earnings. Opening the door, he saw that Kloppman had dozed off at his desk (as the elderly man was wont to do on warm late afternoons when things were slow and he'd finished his task of tending to the lodging house for the day).

Race cleared his throat, first quietly, then a little louder when the sound failed to rouse Kloppman from his slumber. "Hey..." He leaned over the counter to nudge the lodging house superintendent on the shoulder. "Mr. Kloppman...I gotta pay ya for the rest of this week."

The elderly man woke with a start. "What? Oh - oh, Racetrack. It's you." He shook his head, fumbled for his glasses, then set them clumsily on his nose before he began flipping through his ledger. "You're all paid up through next Monday," he said, looking up at Race.

Another pleasant surprise. "Any of the fellas behind?" Race inquired, flipping a dime into the air and catching it deftly.

Kloppman consulted his notebook. "The new boy, Artie - he's a day late. Romeo owed me two cents, but Jack already paid that off."

Race set the dime down on the counter. "This'll get Artie squared away, and put the change towards his fee for tonight. Don't tell him it was me, all right?" Kloppman nodded, making the notation in his ledger.

"You get lucky at Sheepshead today, Racetrack?" He put the dime into his money box. "You're here early, and it seems like you've got cash to burn."

"The papes moved quickly," Race shrugged. "And I guess you could say I hit a stroke of luck."

"Well, it's nice of you to spread the wealth around," Kloppman remarked. "Anonymously, too."

"If the fellas knew I was loaded, they'd be houndin' me right and left," Race grinned. "Can't let 'em think I'm goin' soft either, ya know?" He gave the lodging house owner a little nod. "Thanks, Mr. Kloppman. I'll be headin' up for a bit." He started towards the stairs, but before he'd reached them, he suddenly remembered something. Maybe it was because he'd just seen Morris, or maybe it was some kind of internal instinct that had tipped him off - he didn't know - but he turned back eagerly towards the counter.

"Hey, just makin' sure," he said, "today's the seventh, right?"

Kloppman nodded. "That's right."

Race smirked to himself. The day just kept getting better and better.

Thanking the lodging house owner, he nearly sprinted up the stairs, eager to reach the bunk room. He'd only been planning to relax a bit and maybe take a nap, but now his mind was already scheming, and he was impatient to withdraw to the newsies' living quarters to plan and to announce the good news to whomever happened to be there. Most of the boys would probably still be out selling, but if any of them had returned, they were about to be on the receiving end of Race's barely-contained excitement.

Today was the seventh, which meant that tomorrow would be August eighth, also secretly known among the lower Manhattan Newsies as…

Delancey Day.

* * *

"Hey, Racer!" Albert hissed. "They must've known we was comin' - the back gate's locked!"

Race crept quietly over to where the ginger-haired newsie was crouched half-hidden in the shadows. Upon closer inspection, he saw that the other boy was right; a padlock now secured the rear entrance to the distribution center. Formerly there had only been a latch that could be manipulated with a little know-how, but clearly someone had decided that another deterrent was necessary.

This would make things a bit more difficult.

"You want me to run back to the lodging house for some picks?" Albert offered.

Race was about to reluctantly take him up on it when Artie broke in.

"Before ya do that, let me try somethin'." He made his way over to the gate, reached into his pocket to pull out something too small to see, then began prying at the lock. In a matter of minutes, Race heard the telltale click of the shackle disengaging, and then Artie was pulling the bolt free.

"How'd ya do that?" Albert demanded.

Artie shrugged. "Hairpin," he said, sticking it back into his pocket. "Works better than a pick sometimes, and it's a lot easier to get your hands on."

Race clapped him on the back. "Knew there was a reason why we brought'cha along!" He pushed the gate open, peering into the darkness. "Hold here a moment while I take a look," he said, looking over his shoulder to address the other three newsies. "Probably ain't anyone here since they had that lock on the gate, but it can't hurt to check."

"I'll back you up," Finch offered, and Race nodded silently in agreement.

Finch handed over the rucksack he'd been carrying to Albert before he and Race crept through the gate, skirting the backlot of the distribution center where the wagons normally pulled in through a side entrance to deliver their goods. Everything seemed deserted, and their reconnaissance was completed soon enough without running across a single soul. Race gave a low whistle, and he heard the sound of Albert and Artie making their way quietly through the gate, Albert grunting a bit as he hefted the two rucksacks onto his shoulders which contained the newsies' implements of havoc-wreaking.

Members of the lodging house had been observing the impertinent tradition of Delancey Day for the past three or four years, ever since Jack had stepped into his role as leader. Though he generally discouraged pranking amongst the newsies themselves (for reasons having to do with the mess they made more than anything else), with the Delanceys it had always been a different story. The first time it had only been Jack and Race involved in the hijinks, and there had been no plan for future capers, but the payoff of seeing Oscar and Morris' reactions the following day at the distribution center had been too gratifying to pass up the chance of a repeat performance. Accordingly, they'd dubbed the event "Delancey Day," and the following year had managed not only to pull off an encore but to completely outdo their initial success, even by their own high standards.

Albert had been first to want in on the action, and the year after that, they'd added Finch to their number, and not a moment too soon - the Delanceys, by that time, were suspecting the annual prank, and they'd been lying in wait for the newsies with a few of their brutish friends. If it hadn't been for Finch's quick work with his slingshot, Race doubted any of them would have walked away from the ambush, but as it was, they'd escaped practically unscathed (and had still managed to sneak back several hours later to rig the distribution center as planned, though after that they never set foot on the property after hours without the sharp-shooting newsie at their side).

Race had had all year to think up the prank they would be pulling tonight, and he was unduly pleased at its cleverness. The Delanceys, he knew, would be on their guard, but that would only make it more gleefully satisfying when the newsies managed to outwit them anyway.

The only rub had been Jack's refusal to come. Well, it hadn't exactly been a refusal, to be fair. More like a half-hearted apology as he'd been on his way out the door to meet Katherine for who knew what kind of sappy occasion. Race had been more than a little shocked; this was Delancey Day, after all, and he and Jack had been the founding members of the event. It had been something they'd looked forward to and laughed about every year. But, Race told himself bitterly, he shouldn't have been surprised. Jack was out of the lodging house more often than he was in it these days, and the newsies' humble shenanigans probably couldn't compete anymore with the high-falutin' company he seemed to now prefer.

Race had hidden his disappointment, and the other members of the Delancey Day Task Force (as they called themselves) hadn't said much when he'd announced Jack's absence, but it had still felt odd for only the three of them to be making their plans, packing the rucksacks, and waiting silently in their beds for night to fall.

Artie had caught them sneaking out of the lodging house and had innocently asked to tag along, and Race, still smarting from Jack's indifference, had agreed without thinking too much about it, but, he supposed, the younger newsie had proven his worth already, so maybe they had a replacement for Jack on their hands if the newsie leader was going to continue to blow them off for his recently-acquired ladylove.

Shaking off his bitterness, Race rubbed his hands together in anticipation as Albert and Artie drew near, the former crouching down to open up the bags of items they'd been procuring over the past several months in preparation for their annual caper. In the dim light of the moon, Race couldn't see the faces of his cronies, but he could tell from the quickness of Albert's movements and the eager tension in Finch's shoulders and the barely-audible exclamations of delight from Artie that they were just as excited as he was, and the thought made Race grin to himself as he knelt down to help unpack the rucksacks.

Jack or no Jack, this was going to be a Delancey Day to remember.

* * *

The prank went off without a hitch, and the next morning, the newsies were treated to the annual spectacle of two outraged, cursing Delanceys as they lined up to purchase their papers for the day. Of course, no one ever admitted to doing the deed (there was a reason why they kept the number of newsies in the Task Force small), but Race knew that the Delanceys - Oscar at least - had an idea of who was behind it all.

He and Jack had always dropped hints that they were the instigators, wanting to ensure that if any retaliation _did_ take place it wouldn't be directed towards the younger (and more vulnerable) newsies, but they always stopped just short of acknowledging culpability. They were good liars, after all (that whole bit about improving the truth was a euphemism, and they both knew it), so it wasn't difficult to deny their involvement or even to throw out an innocent-sounding question with a straight face. The Delanceys could bluster and threaten all they wanted, but they could never prove who'd been responsible, and so they generally settled for behaving a little more churlishly than normal to anyone who stepped up to the circulation window.

From his place at the back of the line, Race watched, smirking a little as the unsuspecting Davey walked forward to pay for his papers and nearly had his head bitten off by Oscar who was working the window that morning. He ought to have warned the older Jacobs brother that it was generally advisable to simply set your money down on the counter, wait for your papers, then take them and walk away on the morning of Delancey Day, but he had to admit that it was rather amusing to see the bewildered look on Davey's face as he retreated with his copies of the morning edition, no doubt entirely confused as to what he'd said that would warrant such an irate response.

Race had just finished paying for his own stack of papers (after indulging in some heated banter with Oscar) and was walking off in the direction of the Polo Grounds, when Jack fell into step beside him.

"Hey," the newsie leader said, "ya got a moment to talk?"

Race slid his copies of _The World_ into his newsboy bag. "Sure, Jacky," he said nonchalantly. "What's eatin' ya?"

They hadn't spoken privately since the strike's conclusion, and Race wondered if Jack was going to broach the subject of his recent (and frequent) absences from the lodging house, or maybe express some regret that he'd passed up the Delancey Day pranking in favor of yet another date with Katherine.

"I ran into one of the new boys in line this mornin'," Jack said. "Auggie...Arnie…"

"Artie?" Race supplied.

"Yeah, that's it," Jack nodded. "Artie. Anyway, he was goin' on and on about how he got to go with you and Al and Finchy to rig the distribution center."

"He ended up bein' our fourth," Race acknowledged, trying to keep the implicit criticism out of his voice.

"Well...that's what I wanted to talk to you about." The newsie leader sounded hesitant.

A tiny flicker of hope sprang to life in Race - was Jack finally going to apologize for his negligence and admit that he'd seen reason, maybe confess that he missed their old camaraderie as much as Race did, and that he was willing to do whatever it took to get it back?

"Racer," Jack began uneasily, "it's one thing takin' Albert or Finch or one of the older boys along when you's goin' prankin'...but takin' one of the younger ones along was just plain stupid, 'specially one of the new boys who don't know any better. I thought you was clear on that. Only the older ones is allowed to participate in these kinds of things. If it comes to a brawl, they can defend themselves, but younger ones like Artie ain't gonna stand a chance. We's responsible for them, and they's under our protection."

The unexpected reprimand stung.

"Who do ya think was protectin' them the whole two weeks you was off hidin'?" Race muttered angrily under his breath.

Jack gave him a sharp glance. "What's that?"

"Nothin.'" Race grit his teeth. "Guess I forgot about that little detail."

Jack didn't say anything for a moment, and Race pointedly took a copy of _The World_ from his bag and began to peruse the headlines, even though he was too irritated to really take in what he was reading.

"Look, I know you was probably just bein' friendly invitin' the kid along," Jack allowed, and Race could tell that he was trying to make amends. "You's always been good at that. But you gotta use your head and think about things first, all right?" He paused, and then added, "I'm dependin' on you, Racer."

"Yeah, sure Jacky. Won't happen again." Race snapped the paper shut.

"All right, well…" Jack scratched his head. "I'm gonna get to sellin' then." He gave Race an uneasy look, but when Race didn't say anything in return, Jack turned away and strode off down the street.

Race continued walking. He called out a headline, not even sure if it even bore any semblance to what was in the paper, but not really caring in the moment. He was far too riled up to be worried about the possibility of a duped customer carping about being sold fake news.

_Jack sure had a lot of nerve_, he thought to himself. After skipping out on them for weeks, leaving them to bear the brunt of the fallout, he'd simply sauntered back onto the scene, conveniently reappearing near the strike's conclusion and taking all the credit for its success besides. Sure, it had been Jack (with Katherine's help) who had masterminded the final push that had brought Pulitzer to his knees...but Race knew the truth: that Jack would have never been able to bring the strike to its end or receive the Governor's praise or see his name in the papers or secure a place in history without the help of those who had quietly kept the strike going behind the scenes.

Not that Race cared who got the credit - he was more than happy to relinquish his role as de facto leader and get back to the gratifying business of cracking his jokes, selling his papes, and riling up the Delancey brothers. He didn't need the applause or the adoration or the cushy job at _The World_. Jack could have it all, and Race wouldn't begrudge him it a single bit; the newsie leader _had_ started the strike after all (though now that Race thought about it, even that was debatable), and credit should be given where credit was due.

But would it have hurt for Jack to cut Race a little slack sometimes, especially considering that it was Race who had stepped in to save the newsie leader's sorry hide while Jack had been off licking his wounds at Irving Hall? It wasn't like Race was the only one who'd made errors of judgement...

A lady in a ridiculously large and gaudy hat hailed him for a paper, and Race pasted on a smile and made the sale, not returning to his bitter thoughts until he was well away from her and any possible objections she might make regarding the artistic liberties he'd taken with the headline.

He had to admit that Jack was right about one thing - it hadn't been a wise decision to let Artie come along for the Delancey Day shenanigans. And Race should have warned the younger boy not to talk so openly about his involvement if the victims of their pranking were within earshot. It wasn't Artie's fault - he was only excited about being a part of things, and, in truth, he'd played an important role in the success of their efforts - but he had to learn that letting your guard down could be dangerous, and that it was always important to keep your adversaries within sight so that they couldn't catch you unaware. The Delanceys might have limited themselves to posturing and insults during work hours, but Race and the other newsies knew that they were dangerous enough when encountered outside of the distribution center, and the little ones especially needed to be careful.

Race decided that he'd pull Artie aside and speak to him about it later that night at the lodging house. It would be simple enough, and then he could clear his conscience of Jack's criticism.

Hopefully that would finally be enough to get the newsie leader off his back.

* * *

**A/N**: Something Worth Winning turned one year old about a month ago, so I wanted to pop in and thank you once again for continuing to stick with me. This story's traffic stats are generally declining as people drop off (which is a bummer, but I get it, because life happens, and this is long); I know you have other things you could be doing or reading, so thanks for choosing to spend a bit of time each week on SWW - and thank you if you've favorited/followed, and/or reviewed to let me know that you're still here and that you haven't given up on this yet! Your continued interest in this story is appreciated, and I always enjoy reading and responding to your thoughts, questions, and remarks. Virtual cookie cake, pulled pork, and tic tacs for all! ;)


	60. A Second Date

**Disclaimer: **This is a non-commercial work of fanfiction. Anything recognizable from _Newsies_ belongs to Disney and not to me.

* * *

Chapter 60: A Second Date

"Jack, you have to try this," Katherine insisted, eagerly pushing her plate across the table. "I know it doesn't look like much, but the combination of flavors is good."

Jack gamely reached over and scooped up a forkful of the fruit-and-cheese medley she was offering him. "This supposed to be a salad?" he asked, putting the melange into his mouth.

"Apples, walnuts, and cheese with a creamy dressing," Katherine confirmed. "It's one of their specialties."

"It's real good," Jack said, a little surprised. "Wouldn't have thought somethin' that looked so unappetizin' could be so tasty." He helped himself to another forkful.

"Eat more," Katherine urged. "I can have this anytime."

"Don't haf'ta tell me twice," Jack grinned, tucking into the rest of the salad. "How'd ya find out about this place, anyway? Could've passed right by and never known it was here."

"Darcy introduced me," Katherine answered. "His office is at _The Trib_, so we come here for lunch sometimes when our schedules line up."

Suddenly, the dessert-like salad didn't taste as sweet anymore.

"You hang out with that bummer pretty often?" Jack asked, scraping the plate clean.

"Once or twice a week," Katherine answered. "At least, we did before things got so busy with the strike. He's an old friend. We grew up together because our fathers were both newspaper owners and often attended the same social functions."

Jack didn't answer, chewing on a piece of apple.

"Speaking of the papers," Katherine said, "I was wondering if you'd thought any more about my father's offer."

Jack took a sip of water, deliberately buying himself some time. Honestly, he hadn't. His head had been full of the newspaper owner's daughter, not his business proposition.

"Seems like a big responsibility," he hedged. "Workin' for your father and all."

"You already work for my father," Katherine reminded him, smiling over her cappuccino.

"Right." Jack scratched his head. "Guess it could be a step up from hawkin' headlines." He wouldn't have admitted it to her, but the prospect of being tied down to a regular job - an office job - a job with deadlines and expectations and reporting relationships - made him uneasy. It wasn't just the idea of working a little more closely with Pulitzer - though he certainly didn't relish that thought. It was knowing that he'd have to force his artistic output into a routine, to find a way to make the inspiration come on a regimented basis. Painting for Miss Medda was different; it was a job in that she paid him to do it, but the monetary exchange was initiated out of the goodness of her heart rather than out of a desire to harness his natural aptitude. He painted for the theater owner because she'd always been kind to him and because she'd always given him the chance to walk away whenever he wanted. But with Pulitzer, Jack knew that would not be the case.

Still, he thought to himself reluctantly, an unexpected windfall could be timely. It would be nice to have some extra spending money so that he could take Katherine out and actually pay for their dates and maybe even buy her gifts every once in a while, just because. He had some savings hidden away at the lodging house, but that wouldn't be enough in the long run.

The reminder (no matter how innocently intended) of Darcy's presence in Katherine's life had also added some extra motivation; Jack knew he couldn't hope to compete with the upper-cruster where expendable income was concerned, but having a regular job in addition to his work as a newsie would at least make him a little more respectable.

"If you're not sure about it, you could always counter-offer," Katherine suggested, setting down her cup. "Maybe you could agree to a trial period of a few months or so, just to see how you like it, and if it doesn't suit you, then you can decline extending your employment."

"That don't sound too bad," Jack agreed. It was hard to say "no" when she was looking at him so expectantly. "Guess I could give it a try." The approving look she gave him was enough to make the uneasy feelings diminish, and he managed a grin. "I'll talk to him soon about it."

"I'll have Hannah make you an appointment," Katherine said, finishing the last of her cappuccino. Turning slightly, she motioned for the waiter to bring the check as she took out her handbag.

Jack rolled his shoulders, trying to ease away some of the tension he'd been feeling. It didn't seem right letting Katherine pay for the meal, especially when he'd eaten most of it, but it was foolish to make a show of protesting when they both knew he couldn't afford to foot the bill.

Katherine received the check from the waiter and pulled several coins from a dainty-looking pouch, counting out the money carefully before adding a generous tip.

_How much money did she have?_ Jack found himself wondering. He certainly hadn't been attracted to Katherine for her wealth, and if anything, finding out that she was a heiress had been an unwelcome revelation, but now he wondered how much of Joseph Pulitzer's resources were at her disposal and what that could mean for...whatever the future held.

"Did you have enough to eat, Jack?" Katherine asked, having finished with the business of settling the bill.

"More than enough," Jack answered. He could have eaten more, but he was used to eating less, and the food had been rich and tasty, so he was satisfied. "Thanks for lunch, Kath," he said, giving her a half-smile. "I'll get the next one."

"You don't have to do that, Jack."

"What, you don't think I got enough money to take my girl out every once in a while?" he retorted, sounding a little more defensive than he intended to. "I know I ain't blue-blooded like you are, but fella's got his pride, after all." He'd meant it as a joke, but to his surprise, Katherine looked at him soberly.

"What's wrong?" he asked.

"Am I really 'your girl,' Jack?" The question was straightforward and clear, but there was a weightiness to it, and it came out of the blue.

"Well, I - " He was caught off guard. "...ain't ya?"

Katherine traced the rim of her empty coffee cup with her finger. "I don't think we've ever really talked about it," came her answer.

Jack was still trying to wrap his mind around the unexpected question. Wasn't the answer obvious? They'd kissed! _Multiple times!_ She'd said that she'd be willing to leave New York behind to follow him to Santa Fe, and he, in turn, would have willingly given up Santa Fe to be with her had the occasion called for it!

Did she really expect him to say it?

"Guess I never actually asked if that was what you wanted," he muttered.

"I didn't say that, Jack," she replied. "I said we hadn't _talked_ about it."

"All right," Jack settled back into his chair, trying to appear relaxed. "You wanna talk about it? Let's talk about it. What're your concerns?"

"I just want to know where you think this might be going," Katherine hedged. "I know this was something that we both got caught up in, and I wouldn't have had it any other way...but now I'm just wondering what you think the future might look like for us - if you think we even _have_ a future. I'm not saying I need things to change now, or that I'm looking for a commitment that you're not ready to make; I just want to know where you stand."

_Two weeks_, he thought. The strike had been settled for two weeks. They'd known each other for about a month. And she was already talking about the future!

_Love is a big responsibility, Jack, _came Davey's voice inside his head. _And you should never approach anything like that without a plan. _

"Shaddup," Jack muttered.

"What?"

"Sorry." Jack gave Katherine a guilty look. "Didn't mean you." His conversation with Davey on their way back from Brooklyn had taken place several weeks ago, and Jack hadn't thought much about it since then, but clearly the other newsie's lecture had stayed in his head and had chosen to reassert itself at an opportune moment.

"I'm not trying to force you into something, Jack," Katherine clarified. "I just want to know your thoughts so that we can be on the same page."

Despite her assurances, Jack felt his agitation growing. It was that confining feeling of commitment, the burden of responsibility, weighing on him like stones in a knapsack, and even though he knew that Katherine wasn't trying to tie him down, he didn't want to have to face the implications of her question. He liked their relationship the way it was - passionate, spontaneous, and free of expectations.

Was that wrong of him?

"I can give you some time to think about it," Katherine suggested. "You don't have to answer now."

Jack could tell that she was disappointed, but he didn't have a response for her at the moment (at least not one that would have satisfied her), so he silently accepted her offer to table the matter for a future time.

"Well, I need to get back to _The Sun,_" Katherine said, gathering her handbag and rising from the table. "Will you be heading to the distribution center?"

Jack nodded. "Afternoon edition should be comin' out soon." He followed Katherine out of the cafe to the street. "You still wanna meet up Friday night after you's done with work?" he asked as they prepared to part ways.

Katherine nodded. "I'll be off at five o'clock," she said. "Dinner at Fraunce's?"

"Sure," Jack agreed. He'd occasionally sold near the Pearl Street establishment but had never been inside. "It's a date."

Their goodbye was a bit stiff - most of their recent trysts had ended with a passionate kiss and a reluctant parting, but this time they simply nodded to each other then headed off in opposite directions. _It was probably for the best anyway,_ Jack consoled himself as he caught sight of a familiar face not a hundred yards away.

"Hey, Jacky!" Mush raised his hand in greeting as he drew near. "You headin' over for the afternoon edition?"

Jack nodded, the other newsie's cheerful demeanor lifting his mood considerably. "How'd the papes move for you today, Mush?" he asked.

"Can't complain," the other boy replied. "Headline didn't completely stink."

Jack grunted in agreement. He hoped the afternoon one would be better.

"So, you and Katherine gettin' pretty close?" Mush asked, grinning. Apparently he'd caught sight of them leaving the cafe.

If it had been almost any other newsie asking the question, Jack would have brushed it off or diverted the conversation to something else, but instead he found himself considering the possibility of answering seriously and even asking Mush for some advice. Romeo may have been the self-proclaimed flirt of the lodging house, and Jack may have had enough experience going with a girl for a week or two, but Mush was the only one he knew who had actually had a sweetheart for longer than a few months, and though in the end it hadn't worked out, both parties were still on speaking terms, so Mush must have done something right.

He generally avoided asking his boys for advice, but maybe this time an exception would be warranted.

"Guess you could say we's gettin' close," Jack said, responding to the other newsie's question. "Havin' some trouble tryin' to figure things out, though."

Mush gave him a sympathetic look. "Gets a little harder after the sparks die down, huh?"

"I just didn't think she'd be wantin' to talk about future plans so soon," Jack admitted. "And that everythin' needed to be spelled out between us. I thought we understood each other well enough without all that."

"Well, if you's at the point where she's comfortable enough to tell ya what's on her mind, it's probably a good thing," Mush observed. "Better to talk about things now than have 'em blow up later, right?"

Jack grunted.

Mush chuckled sympathetically. "Hey, don't look so down, all right?" He clapped Jack on the shoulder. "I'm sure Katherine'll come around."

"Yeah...sure hope so," Jack replied. He sounded unconvincing, even to his own ears. "You think I oughta start plannin' and thinkin' seriously - about the future, and all that?" he asked Mush. "Seems a little soon to me."

The other newsie thought for a moment before answering. "Does seem a little soon," he agreed. "She ain't...wantin' you to marry her right now or anything like that...right?"

"Nah," Jack clarified. "She's just wantin' to know where I see us goin'."

Mush laughed, sounding a little relieved. "Oh, all right. Well, that ain't so bad." He gave Jack a curious look. "Where _do_ you see it goin'?"

"Guess that's the problem," Jack sighed. "Never really thought about it. Figured there was nothin' wrong with just enjoyin' the moment."

Mush made a sympathetic sound. "You's right, ain't nothin' wrong with it...but if gettin' things settled is important to Katherine, then you's gonna have to figure out how to meet her halfway. Seems like she's pretty serious about you - she's probably just wantin' to know if you's serious about her too."

"Ain't it obvious?" Jack exclaimed, allowing a little bit of frustration to leak into his voice. "We was kissin' in front of all you bummers right after the strike was settled, wasn't we?"

Mush chuckled. "You sure was, and that's great and all…but Katherine said flat-out that she was goin' to follow you to the ends of the earth if you left town. That's a real promise right there. A kiss probably don't feel like quite as much of a guarantee."

Jack frowned.

"I ain't tellin' you what you's feelin' is wrong," Mush said mildly, "and if you don't wanna think about it yet, you should probably just be honest with Katherine and tell her so. But if you think she's somethin' really special, maybe takin' some time to think more about it might be good. We ain't gonna be young forever, ya know? Eventually we's gonna have to grow up and settle down."

Jack knew that well enough - the weight of responsibility had lain heavy on his shoulders for years, always gnawing at the back of his mind. But he'd never applied that world-weary outlook to his love life. In fact, he'd taken pains _not_ to let that kind of thinking intrude whenever he found himself fancying a girl. He liked having an escape from reality, a part of his existence that wasn't touched by care and fraught with the dread of the unknown. It was the only part of his life that was free and unhindered, the only part of his life where he could enjoy the adventure without having to think about the consequences.

If Mush was right, however, that kind of thinking wasn't going to get him very far anymore. At least not where Katherine was concerned.

"Hey, don't worry - you'll figure it out," Mush said cheerfully, breaking the silence as he once again clapped Jack on the back. "You's the best of Manhattan's best, and that ain't only in reference to sellin' papes."

Jack laughed, the sincere compliment boosting his morale a little. "Guess that's true," he agreed.

"You know it." The other newsie grinned. They arrived at the distribution center and got in line behind the rest of the boys who had assembled to purchase their papers. Mush began chatting with Elmer, who was in front of him in the queue, and Jack idly perused the blackboard mounted above the circulation gate that displayed the afternoon's headlines.

He heard the sound of boisterous laughter, and turned to see Albert and Race riling each other up as always, the gambler's cigar in Albert's hand and the ginger-haired newsie's cap atop Race's own. Several of the other boys were watching them in amusement, shouting out encouragement to one or the other as the two scuffled, trying to regain their stolen property. Eventually, Race triumphantly snatched his cigar back to the cheers of the onlookers, and the defeated Albert groused good-naturedly until the gambler finally returned his cap.

The sound of the circulation bell cut through the chatter, and Albert and Race made their way back into line. Race caught Jack's eye for just a moment as he sauntered into place behind Crutchie, but before Jack could raise his hand or nod in acknowledgement, the gambler pointedly looked away.

_Still sore, then,_ Jack thought to himself. Race had been noticeably aloof after their conversation about Delancey Day over a week ago, and it hadn't taken long for Jack to realize that the residual tension that had lingered after the strike was nowhere near dissipating. It irked him a bit; Race had fallen back into his subordinate role and didn't challenge Jack outright, but he quietly engaged in small acts of noncompliance, arriving late for lodging house meetings, shrugging in response to the important questions leveled at him, and leaving his towel hanging half-out of the washroom hamper (a habit he knew Jack hated), almost as though he was determined to be as irresponsible as he could to make up for the two weeks he'd been forced to play leader.

The immaturity of it all was starting to wear on Jack. He hadn't realized how much he'd depended on Race, not necessarily for the logistical tasks he oversaw (for the gambler continued to be dependable enough at fulfilling them), but for his buoyant demeanor that helped offset Jack's own heavy sense of responsibility and lessened the weight of that burden in no small way. Race had always been a snarker at heart, but there was something about his quick wit and ready laughter that had made Jack feel more sure of himself and more confident that things at the lodging house were going well, even when things were a little tough. Not being on the same page as Race had proven to be more unsettling than he'd thought.

Jack might have felt the loss less acutely if his other lieutenants had been in a place to fill the void, but Davey had been persistent in his choice to step away from his previous role as leader, redirecting the newsies to Jack or Race or Crutchie whenever an important question came up, and noticeably holding back from giving his opinion outright in their group meetings despite the fact that he clearly wanted to speak up. The transition back to "regular newsie" hadn't been an easy one - Jack could tell that Davey was struggling to fit in now that he didn't have a clearly defined purpose - but the older Jacobs boy was nothing if not stubborn when it came to his convictions, and Jack, knowing that the reasons behind the decision were sound ones, could respect that, though he wished that Davey didn't have to be such a stickler sometimes.

Crutchie was another story altogether. He was just as cheerfully optimistic as he'd been before his two week stay at The Refuge, but there was a hollowness to his laughter sometimes, and every once in a while Jack would catch an almost-distraught look crossing the other newsie's face when he thought no one else was looking. Seeing it made the invisible weight on Jack's shoulders increase tenfold, and every time he glimpsed that look, it was as if he was instantaneously back on the rooftop that warm, muggy night in July, his fists clenched in anguish as they clung to Crutchie's ragged blanket, silently sobbing as he replayed the memory of his best friend's capture over and over again.

He hadn't told Crutchie yet about what had happened during the strike. They'd talked around the matter - Crutchie had even made a few oblique remarks, casually expressing his curiosity, but Jack hadn't been ready to confess the depths of his failure to the one person he knew loved him like a brother, the one person who had always staunchly believed the best of him and had refused to see the worst. Crutchie's friendship was too dear to Jack, and the thought of losing his esteem - after Jack had nearly already lost so much - was unbearable. So he'd given only vaguely-worded answers, Crutchie hadn't questioned him, and the newsies, it seemed, had all agreed to remain closed-mouthed about the matter, so the truth had remained undisclosed.

But the weight of it sat heavy on Jack's shoulders.

He watched, still brooding, as the newsies in front of him took turns paying for their papers. They'd been doing well lately where money was concerned; the new buy-back policy had worked both to their advantage and to the advantage of _The World_, and more copies were being sold now than ever before. This meant a small surplus of pocket change and the resulting high spirits where the newsies were concerned, and by all appearances, their brief moment of making history had ended happily and well.

But, as Jack was coming to realize, that was only one side of the story.

* * *

**A/N: **I _promise_, I did not sit down to write this with the goal of dashing the trademark Disney happy ending of _Newsies_...I just thought that, realistically-speaking, working things out after the strike might have been a little more complicated than the finale scene leads us to believe. I can guarantee you that this story is not going to devolve into a drama-fest - these characters, for all their flaws, are committed to each other, and they're going to work it out eventually. :) And I can promise that the next few chapters will be significantly more light-hearted.

Thanks for reading! :) I'd love to hear what you thought of this installment.

* * *

Guest Review Responses:

**Guest (7/1):** I'm glad you enjoyed Delancey Day, and thanks for the encouragement to keep writing! It means a lot to know you're still enjoying the story! :)

**Guest (7/3)**: Pulled pork indeed - I hear it's amazing. ;) Thank you, I'm so glad you're enjoying this!


	61. Between Brothers

**Disclaimer: **This is a non-commercial work of fanfiction. Anything recognizable from _Newsies_ belongs to Disney and not to me.

* * *

Chapter 61: Between Brothers

There was no other way around it, Davey thought. He was going to have to do something about his shoes soon.

Previous to his life as a newsboy, his footwear had been serviceable enough and had generally lasted several seasons without needing to be replaced, but all of the walking necessitated by his new profession had worn through the already-thin soles of his leather boots in no time, and his feet were starting to ache now with every step that he took. He'd pushed through the discomfort for the last few days, but the dull pain was getting worse to the point where he could no longer ignore it.

It would be expensive to get his shoes repaired, but it would cost even more to replace them, and he wasn't sure if his family could afford it. His father's injury had continued to slowly improve, but something seemed off about how the leg was healing, and Davey had quietly agonized over the fact that his father refused to see a doctor because he feared the cost of treatment would be too much. Davey had tried to work out the numbers one evening, scribbling away on a scrap of paper, adding up the amount of his income from plus his mother's earnings from her employment at the factory and trying to weigh that against their expenses, grasping to find any kind of margin whatsoever to convince his father that they could cover the cost of his medical expenses, but in the end, he'd given up. Things were just too tight at the moment.

Davey knelt down to examine his boots, wondering if it would be possible to make the repairs himself, but he quickly realized that he lacked not just the knowhow, but the materials, and that he didn't really have the time to try to figure out a way around paying for the expense. Aching feet meant slower walking and limited ground that he could cover to sell his papers, which meant that his sales would decline and his earnings would drop and then that would mean real trouble. The wisest thing to do would be to get his shoes repaired as soon as possible. It would set him back - both in terms of money and time - but it was really the only long-term option. He couldn't afford to get hurt on the job.

It was a simple enough decision, he supposed, but complicating the matter was the fact that he still had a half-full bag of newspapers to sell. He'd have to stop by the tenement to get some more money before he could head to the cobbler's, and depending on how long it took for the repairs, he might not be able to make it back to the distribution center before it closed, which meant he wouldn't be able to sell his papers back and would have to either take the loss or else stay out late until he'd sold the last copy. He could head to the distribution center first and sell back his papers, ensuring that he wouldn't come out with a deficit, but that would also mean resigning himself to not making any more money for that day.

Deciding to take the chance, Davey turned in the direction of the tenement, calling out the headlines as he went. He sold a copy of _The World _to a man in a business suit, and then a few to a group of women passing by on their way to the market, and soon afterwards, a white-haired elderly lady even gave him a dime and kindly told him to keep the change. (He wondered if the pain was beginning to show on his face, or if he was starting to inadvertently limp a little, and almost had to smile wryly at the realization that he was employing one of the newsies' most common techniques to sell their papers, though in this case the discomfort was far from feigned).

He was about three blocks away from the tenement, halfway between school and home, when his attention was suddenly arrested by the sight of a familiar figure. Davey squinted, trying to make sure that he wasn't seeing things, but as he got a better look, he saw that he hadn't been mistaken, and alarm immediately surged through him even as he began to quicken his pace, shoving the newspaper he'd been holding back into his bag and ignoring the dull pain shooting through his heels with every step that he took.

"Les!" he called out, trying to catch his brother's attention. "Les!" School wasn't due to be over for another hour at least, and even if class had been dismissed early, Les should have been walking home with the Becker sisters and Margaret as he usually did, not wandering around Manhattan by himself.

At first, the nine-year-old didn't respond to his brother's attempts to get his attention, but finally he turned around, and Davey, now only a few yards away, had to stop himself from panicking even further when he saw that his brother's clothes were dirty and ragged, and that the area around his left eye looked red and swollen.

"What _happened,_ Les?" he demanded, reaching his brother's side and immediately kneeling down to look him over. "Did someone hit you?"

"I got in a fight," Les answered, his voice a mixture of sullenness and defiance. "And if you think _I_ look bad, you should see the other kid!"

Davey stared at him. "You got in a _fight_?" he echoed. "At school?"

"Where else?"

"Les, what were you _thinking_?"

"He called me a liar, David!" Les burst out. "I was telling some of the boys in class about how I helped Jack and the rest of the newsies stop _The World,_ and about how we ran a city-wide rally and snuck into Pulitzer's basement and met the governor and everything, and he said that I was a lying little guttersnipe, and that I was making it up!"

"It doesn't matter what he said to you, Les! You cannot just take a swing at everyone who taunts you!"

"But he was _wrong_!" Les protested. "I _wasn't _lying!"

Davey stood up, trying his best to temper his frustration. He already had too much on his mind, and having to factor in the unexpected complication of Les' recalcitrance was only making things more difficult. "Why aren't you at school?" he demanded, perhaps more sharply than he intended. "Did you get sent home?"

Les scowled. "I wish."

"You mean you're supposed to be at school right now? You just got up and _left_?"

The younger boy folded his arms across his chest, refusing to speak...but the defiance in his eyes was answer enough.

Davey made an exasperated sound. "Come on." He put his hands on Les' shoulders and turned him in the direction of the schoolhouse. "You're going back to school. You can't just get up and leave like that without telling anyone." He began to propel the younger boy down the street, but to his surprise, Les dug his heels in and forcefully pushed Davey's hands away, turning around to face him.

"I'm not going back there, David," he said fiercely. "I don't care what you or anyone else says!"

"This is non-negotiable, Les. You're going back to school, and you're going to have to figure out a way to make it work. Your education is too important for you to be getting into trouble and starting fights like this." Davey paused, then added sternly, "You can do better than that."

He expected Les to respond with another indignant outburst, but to his surprise, tears suddenly welled up in the younger boy's eyes.

"Don't you get it, David?" he sniffled angrily. "I'm not _like_ you, all right?" He swiped his hand across his eyes, dashing the tears away. "Maybe going to school is _your_ idea of fun, but you knew I hated it and you _still_ told Mom to send me back while _you_ got to stay with the newsies! And she listened to you of course, because _you're_ the oldest and the responsible one who's _always right_!"

"Les - "

"I liked selling papes, and I was good at it, too!" Les continued. "Jack said so! But _you_ had to ruin it. You didn't even ask me what I wanted before you talked to Mom. It's the _one thing_ I was good at, David - the one thing I was better at than you! Why did you have to take that away from me?"

"Les - "

"Everyone thinks you're _so_ smart and _so_ responsible and _so_ mature for your age, and they're always asking me why I can't be more like you! And I _hate_ it, okay? I'm not like you, and I never will be! So you can just _stop asking_!"

Les' assertion was accompanied by a fresh round of angry tears as Davey stood stock still beside him, trying to wrap his mind around everything that he'd just heard.

The fact that he and Les were fundamentally different wasn't a revelation in any sense of the word; that reality had been clear for years. They didn't look alike, didn't talk alike, didn't act alike, and while the discrepancy between their attitudes towards school was one of their most striking differences, Davey had never realized that Les was so aware of (or so affected by) that contrast. He knew that the transition back to the classroom after newsboy life had been difficult, but he would have never expected that it would result in the kind of frustration that would have caused Les to physically act out his anger.

Compounding the problem seemed to be the pressure (perceived or real) that Les felt to be like Davey. That, too, was surprising. Their parents, it seemed, tried their best not to compare the two boys, but perhaps there was an unspoken expectation there that Davey was oblivious to. Les had never hinted at this before - in fact, the impression that Davey generally had was that his younger brother wanted to be as _little_ like him as possible. He seemed to admire boys who were confident and boisterous, boys like Jack and Race, and he disparaged Davey's more serious demeanor on a regular basis. Compliments were rare and mild insults were common, and given the choice, Les would always choose to go off with one of Davey's friends rather than hang around with Davey himself. But maybe there was more to the story than that.

Davey had never really thought about what it would feel like to have an older brother - particularly, what it would feel like to have an older brother whose interests and personality were vastly different than his own. He probably would have felt the pressure to live up to a precedent too if he'd been in that situation.

Glancing over at Les, Davey saw that he was rubbing his eyes with his shirtsleeve and immediately felt remorseful. He hadn't listened well when the younger boy had explained the situation just moments ago - he'd heard the words...but he'd been so caught up in his own worries that he hadn't stopped to really _listen_ to what Les was trying to say. He'd approached the situation as a problem to be solved rather than an opportunity to understand.

"Les," he said gently, "...I'm sorry."

Les' tear-filled eyes shot up to his brother's in surprise.

"I'm sorry," Davey repeated, putting his hand on the younger boy's shoulder. "I didn't know you felt that way...about school, and about me. I didn't realize it's been so hard for you."

"That's because everything comes easy to you," Les sniffled.

"School maybe does," Davey conceded. "But...there are a lot of things that I'm not good at."

"Like what?" Les asked, sounding incredulous.

"Well...speaking up, especially when I'm around people I don't know. Selling papes. Making friends easily. And telling people how I really feel. You're better at all of those things than me."

"But you _do_ speak up around people you don't know," Les countered. "What about the rally? And you've got lots of friends! What do you call Jack and Race and the newsies? What do you call Abby and Sadie?"

"I'm thankful that I was able to give that speech at the rally and that I've been able to make friends with the newsies and the Beckers," Davey conceded. "But none of that came easily to me. When I walked out there in front of the crowd in Irving Hall, I was pretty scared - terrified, actually. And when I met Jack and Race, I wasn't sure if I could trust them - I thought that Jack was trying to steal my papers and that Race was a complete nuisance at first. I didn't want to have anything to do with either of them. With Sadie I was just as bad. I was so annoyed at her for ruining my shirt that I didn't even try to get to know her. I wrote her off from the start, and it wasn't until later that I realized I'd misjudged her. I had to change my first impressions about all of them, because I was wrong." It was a little embarrassing to admit, but it was the truth.

"So yeah, there's a lot I'm not good at," Davey reiterated, smiling a little ruefully at Les. "The same goes for the other things I mentioned, too. They're not easy for me. I have to try really hard to do them well, and even then I don't always succeed."

The younger boy didn't say anything in response, but Davey could tell that he was mulling over the disclosure.

"Les," Davey said, kneeling down to look his brother in the eye, "I _do_ expect you to go back to school and to try your best...but I want you to know that I don't expect you to be like me. We may come from the same family, but we're different people. And you've got talents and abilities that I only wish I had. You're great at making friends, you pick up on things quickly, and you're the bravest almost-ten-year-old that I know." He gave Les a small smile. "Don't let other people's doubts tell you who you are, all right?" he said softly, setting his hands on his brother's shoulders. "They might not believe you when you tell them about the strike, but _you_ know it's true, and the people who matter know it's true, and that's what's important."

Les sniffed loudly and wiped his nose with his shirtsleeve, but he nodded.

"Good." Davey got to his feet and immediately felt the dull ache returning. He wished that he could spare some money to buy Les a small treat on the way back to school, but he knew that he would already be spending several day's earnings on his shoe repairs, so he regretfully dismissed the thought.

"Are you ready to go back to school, Les?" he asked.

"I'll never be ready," the younger boy sighed. "But I guess you're right - I'd better go back to make sure Sadie and Abby aren't worried when they can't find me after class."

"You'll need to explain to the schoolmaster, too," Davey reminded him. "He's probably wondering where you disappeared to."

"He's the one that sent me to wait outside in the first place," Les muttered. "He said he was going to come and have a talk with me, but I figured I'd save him the trouble and skip out before he got there."

"Well...you're going to have to have that talk with him," Davey said as the two of them began walking in the direction of the school house. "He probably just wants to know what happened and to make sure that it doesn't happen again. It'll be good if you can explain your side of the story. I'm sure he knows that you don't usually react like this."

Les shrugged, but he was keeping pace without complaint, so Davey took it as a good sign and said nothing further.

* * *

The majority of the relatively short walk back to school was spent in silence. Les plodded along next to David, subdued and thoughtful. He was reluctant to return to the classroom, but he knew that there was no way around it - his punishment would likely get heavier the longer he put it off. And despite the fact that he cared very little about upsetting the schoolmaster, he really didn't want to make Sadie and Abby worry.

_What will Mom and Dad say?_ Les thought to himself, kicking at a few stray rocks. If there hadn't been any visible evidence of the fight, he would have been sorely tempted to plead or bargain with David for his secrecy, but even if the older boy agreed not to say anything about it, the proof was there on Les' face. He couldn't hide a swollen eye.

The fact that he'd clearly bested his opponent - who had been both a year older and slightly bigger - had felt more gratifying in the heat of the moment, and Les, full of adrenaline, fury, and righteous indignation, had initially thought when he'd defiantly left school that he would hit the streets to find Jack to tell him about his victory...but he'd forgotten that David, the one newsie who _wouldn't_ be impressed by his derring-do, was roaming the very same streets as well, and it had been just Les' luck that David had been the first one to spot him.

He hadn't meant to fly off the handle at his brother like that. He _did_ hate the pressure of people expecting him to be like David...but he certainly didn't hate David, and David was probably the only authority figure in Les' life who had never voiced or even hinted at the idea that Les ought to be more like him.

The fact that David had readily admitted to struggling had surprised Les, mostly because he'd always assumed that David was good at everything...or, at least, everything that _mattered_. The one exception had been selling papes - that had been the very first time that Les had observed a crack in his brother's otherwise-unwavering competence, and by contrast, selling papes had come easily to Les...so maybe that was part of the reason why being forced to give it up had hurt so much. That, and the fact that going back to school meant he couldn't spend time with Jack and Race and the rest of the newsies. Les _liked_ having a built-in group of friends, and the fact that they were older only made it more exciting. The newsies had welcomed the Jacobs brothers into their ranks, and Les had settled in among them without a second thought. He hadn't even considered the thought that David's adjustment process might not have been so easy.

Les had always figured that his older brother didn't have more friends because he didn't _want_ more friends, preferring to stay close to a few rather than socializing with as many as possible. This was, in all likelihood, still true...but Les hadn't realized that maybe David's social circle was more select because he _didn't _easily trust people or fall into camaraderie with them the way Les did. Les was outgoing and enthusiastic and he wore his heart on his sleeve, but David's heart was probably buried somewhere beneath layers of responsibility and cautious concern. If he had stronger personal feelings about anything - hope or fear or disappointment or joy - he rarely showed it...but now that Les thought about it, it seemed reasonable to think that his brother would probably _want_ to express these things...at least on occasion.

Why did he hold back so much? Les wondered. He glanced up at David and saw that the older boy was deep in thought, his hands shoved into his pockets and his brow furrowed into a look of concentration. His newsboy bag, Les noted, was half-full, so he wondered if David was worried about being able to sell all his papes. Maybe being preoccupied and worried was part of being the oldest. If that was the case, Les certainly didn't envy his brother one bit.

All too soon they arrived at the school yard.

David slowed to a stop in front of the gate. "Do you want me to go in with you, Les?" he asked. The question was a generous one; Les knew that his brother in all likelihood _wanted_ to walk him into the classroom to make sure that things got smoothed over in a satisfactory manner with the schoolmaster...but the fact that he was giving Les the choice showed that he was trusting him enough to do the right thing.

"I've got it from here," Les answered. He didn't want to be escorted back like a little kid if he could help it.

David nodded. "Make sure to talk to Mom and Dad about what happened today when you get home," he said. "I have to stop by there to pick up something before I get back to selling, but I'll let you be the one to talk to them first."

Another unexpected boon.

"Oh, and Les?" David added, just as the younger boy was about to head through the gate. "You'll probably have to ask Mom to help you with your assignments tonight. I might not be home in time to look them over with you."

"Are you going out with the newsies?" Les asked, a bit enviously.

David shook his head. "No...I think I might just need a little more time to finish selling. But if I don't make it home before you go to bed, I'll see you in the morning, all right?"

Les nodded and walked through the gate, trudging slowly towards the schoolhouse. Before he got to the door, he turned to look over his shoulder and saw David standing there at the gate. And it suddenly dawned on Les that, as much as he was reluctant to go back to school, he wasn't the only one stuck doing something that he didn't enjoy. It wasn't even a matter of enjoyment alone for David - their family's survival and well-being rested on his shoulders in the form of that bag of papers, and he was bearing the burden alone, carrying the weight of _The World_ so that Les didn't have to.

The older boy had turned and was just beginning to walk away when Les called out, "David, wait!" He sprinted back towards the gate, ran through it, and barreled into his brother with enough force to make David stagger back a few steps, his arms pinned to his sides by Les' exuberant hug.

"Love you, David," Les muttered into the older boy's shirt. "Even if you're a complete stick-in-the-mud."

David chuckled. "Love you too, Les," he replied. "Even if you're more than a handful sometimes."

"You mean I keep your life interesting," Les corrected, unable to resist getting in the last word. He stepped back. "Without me, you'd probably be really boring."

"Well...I guess you could say that." David smiled. "But without me, you'd probably be really reckless."

"How's that a bad thing?"

"You'll understand when you're older," David replied, grabbing Les' bowler and ruffling his hair. "And maybe…" he held the hat overhead, "...when you're a little bit taller."

"Hey!" Les scowled, jumping and failing to retrieve the target. "Give it back! I have to get to school."

David lowered his arm with a grin, and Les snatched the bowler, settling it back on his head indignantly.

"All right, no more playing around," the older boy said. "It's back to school for you, and back to selling papes for me."

Les obligingly made his way back through the gate, a little more lightheartedly this time, and when when he turned back at the door of the schoolhouse to look for David, his brother gave him an encouraging nod and a small smile, then raised his hand in farewell before turning to head off down the street.

Les watched until he had disappeared...and then he squared his shoulders and entered the schoolhouse. He wasn't looking forward to what awaited, but he would man up and face it head on.

He, like David, had a job to do.

* * *

**A/N**: It's a rare occasion when Les isn't fulfilling his familial obligation to torment Davey's life out, but I think there's a side to him that _can_ be a little more sensitive, even if it rarely shows itself. :) Thanks for reading, friends! I'd love to hear what you thought of this chapter even if it's just a word or two, and I hope that you'll join me next week as Davey and Sadie team up to solve an unexpected problem. Until then, take care and stay safe! :)


	62. Welcomed Assistance

**Disclaimer: **This is a non-commercial work of fanfiction. Anything recognizable from _Newsies_ belongs to Disney and not to me.

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Chapter 62: Welcomed Assistance

"Sadie, are you watching the time? The potatoes should have been done several minutes ago."

Sadie snapped out of her musings and quickly dipped a slotted spoon into the boiling water. She lifted a dripping potato from the pot and gingerly set the steaming vegetable down on a plate, grimacing a little as she did so. She'd let her mind wander and hadn't actually been attending to the clock at all, and as she carefully put a fork to the potato, she saw with dismay that, instead of being perfectly tender, the tuber was sadly overcooked, collapsing into a mush the moment she applied the slightest pressure.

"If you're not going to pay attention to what you're doing, Sadie, please go help your father," Miriam Becker said wearily, taking the slotted spoon away from her daughter and quickly rescuing the rest of the potatoes from the steaming pot.

Sadie bit her lip. "I'm sorry, Mama - I didn't mean to ruin them." She paused for a moment, then asked hesitantly, "Might I make them into mashed potatoes instead?"

"These were supposed to be for a hash," her mother answered, "but go and see if we have any butter in the icebox."

Sadie hurried over to the pantry and opened the icebox. Her heart sank. No butter. And no chance of redemption, then.

She returned to the kitchen.

"None?" her mother asked. Sadie shook her head.

"Go help your father," Miriam said again, gesturing to the door. "He's up to his ears in repairs today, so I'm sure he'd appreciate some help. I'll take care of dinner."

Sadie silently did as she was told. She knew that her mother was exasperated, and rightfully so - Lilly had endured a difficult day, seemingly beset with seizure upon seizure, and though they'd been mild enough, their frequency had been exhausting, and Miriam had hardly been able to get a moment's rest. Compounding the turmoil was the fact that a number of tenants had reported problems with their living quarters. This, too, wasn't anything unusual, as there were always repairs that needed to be made around the tenement, but the fact that several issues had arisen on the same day meant that Philip Becker had the difficult task of prioritizing them and trying to attend to all of them single-handedly.

After changing into her work clothes and covering her hair with an old hat, Sadie made her way out of the apartment and down the hall to her father's office. The door was ajar, and her father was at his desk, rifling through the contents of a box.

"Papa, can I help you?" Sadie asked, poking her head in. "I've made a nuisance of myself in the kitchen, and Mama thought I might be more useful as an extra set of hands to you."

Her father smiled. "If she can spare you, I'd be glad for your help, Sadie. It's been quite an afternoon, and I've got several projects to attend to at the moment." He fished a key out of the box on the desk. "I'll fill you in on what you can help me with in a moment, but would you mind going downstairs to fetch the ladder first? It should be outside of number fourteen - Mrs. Kogan said she was done with it, and I'll need it upstairs on the third floor. We're going to clear out number thirty-seven so that a family can temporarily relocate there."

Sadie nodded.

"If it's too heavy, leave it and I'll come down to get it," her father said, putting the box away in his desk and joining her in the hallway. "I just need to head down the hall to check on something, but after that I can come down and help you if it's too much."

"I'm sure I'll be fine," Sadie answered. She'd brought the ladder up by herself before, and though it was cumbersome, it really wasn't that heavy, so if she took her time, she knew she'd be able to do it.

Her father gave her a grateful smile and a word of thanks, then turned and hurried down the hall.

Sadie made her way to the first floor of the tenement and found the ladder exactly where her father had said it would be. Carrying the wooden structure proved to be simple enough...until she had to start climbing. She'd forgotten how awkward it was to carry something like a ladder up the stairs when one did not possess particularly long arms or legs.

Adjusting her grip, she struggled up the first few steps, trying to keep the ladder from scraping against the stairs as best as she could. She had almost reached the top of the first flight when she suddenly felt the weight of her burden lessen significantly, and a voice said, "Let me help you with that, Sadie."

She turned around and saw Davey standing behind her, his hands on the side-rail of the ladder. He looked like he had just come back from selling; he was wearing his newsboy cap, and his empty canvas bag hung at his side. "Is this going up to your father's office?" he asked.

"To one of the apartments on the third floor," Sadie answered. "But you don't need to do that. It's a bit unwieldy, but it's not really that heavy."

Davey took the ladder from her hands. "I'm just happy you're actually using this," he said, grinning at her before he started up the stairs. "Books make good step-stools in a pinch, but they're really supposed to be for reading."

"You're never going to forget that, are you?" Sadie sighed, trudging after him.

"How could I?" He laughed a little. "It made quite an impression."

Despite the fact that he was the one burdened with the ladder, he was taking the steps two at a time, and Sadie was having difficulty keeping up with his long strides. "I wish you didn't have such a good memory about _that_ particular incident," she lamented. "It was one of my less-than-glorious moments."

"It was one of my less-than-glorious moments, too," Davey agreed. "But it turned out all right, didn't it?" He saw her trailing behind and stopped on the landing of the second floor to wait for her to catch up.

"I suppose it did," Sadie acknowledged. She drew even with him, and he motioned for her to precede him up the next flight of stairs.

"Would you mind going ahead?" he asked. "I'm not sure which unit we're heading to, and this way I won't get ahead of myself."

"You mean this way you won't leave me behind."

He gave her an apologetic look. "Sorry, I didn't mean to. I guess I just never realized that you were so - " He stopped himself abruptly.

"'Short,' Davey. The word is 'short.'"

"I didn't mean for it to come out that way," he insisted as she breezed past him and started up the stairs. "It's not a bad thing, Sadie."

"It is when you can never reach the top shelves and when you can't see ahead in a crowd and when people don't take you seriously," she countered.

Davey didn't say anything for a moment as he followed her up the stairs. "I guess I could see how that would be challenging," he acquiesced. "But it can't be all bad. I mean, if you weren't...well, short...you probably wouldn't have needed to stand on those books, and then you wouldn't have fallen and spilled that paint on my shirt, and maybe we wouldn't have become friends." He paused, then added. "That would have been a loss...at least, for me." She couldn't see him at the moment, but she could easily imagine the look of slightly-embarrassed sincerity on his face.

They reached the third floor landing, and Sadie was about to turn to him and say something - namely, that it would have been a loss for her, too, if they hadn't become friends - but before she could do so, her father appeared at the end of the hall, walking out of the very apartment that was their destination.

"Excellent timing!" he called out. "I've just opened up number thirty-seven, and it's ready to be cleared." He smiled at Davey. "Thank you for helping Sadie with that, David. I'm afraid we've had quite a few unexpected projects come up today, so she's going to be helping me out with a few things."

"If you'd like, I can pitch in, too," Davey offered. "I've started working on the past tenant files like you asked and was going to try to finish them this evening, but if there are more urgent projects that I can do, I'm at your disposal."

Sadie watched as her father considered for a moment before replying. "If it wouldn't trouble you, I'd actually be thankful for your assistance," he admitted. "Sadie and I were going to work on clearing out one of the unoccupied apartments. We've been using it as a storage room, but one of the families on the first floor has a leak in their unit, so I'm going to temporarily relocate them to the third floor until I've fixed the problem and everything's dried out. If you can help Sadie move the heavier items out of number thirty-seven and into my office, I'll be able to get to fixing that leak directly."

"Not a problem," Davey answered.

Philip beamed. "Excellent!" He turned to Sadie. "The office is already unlocked, as you know, and I've tried to clear some space, but if you and David are able to figure out a better configuration for things, feel free to rearrange whatever you need to." Thanking them once again, he hurried off towards the stairs.

"Poor Papa," Sadie murmured as they continued down the hallway. "He doesn't let it show, but he's worried, I can tell." She looked up at Davey. "Thank you for stepping in to help," she said. "It was kind of you to do that, and I know it's eased the burden for my father, but I'm sure you weren't expecting to be put to work when you offered to carry the ladder up here for me."

"It's really no trouble," Davey insisted. They reached the apartment, and she held open the door so that he could enter with the ladder. "Your father was generous to let my family have such a reasonable rate on our rent - my parents often mention it - and he gave me a job, besides. Helping out when he needs it is the least I can do."

They entered number 37, and Sadie glanced in dismay at the many boxes and miscellaneous items that were arranged about the room.

"I didn't realize there was so much that needed to be moved." She bit her lip. "It's going to be a tight fit to get all of this into Papa's office."

Davey set the ladder down so that it leaned against the wall, laid his newsboy bag down on the floor, then walked over to stand next to her. "Does your father need all of this to be easily accessible?" he asked, surveying the aggregation.

"I doubt it," Sadie answered. "Most of the things he needs he keeps in the supply closet."

"Hmm."

"What are you thinking?" she asked, giving him a curious look.

"Divide and conquer," Davey answered. "If we can't fit everything into the office, maybe some of this can be stored elsewhere. I'm not sure if your family has room in their apartment, but I could ask my parents if we could keep some of these things temporarily until everything's been settled - at least, if your father would be comfortable with that. We don't have a lot of room, but some of those boxes - " he gestured to a stack of similar-sized cartons " - could definitely fit next to Les' and my bed, and I think we might be able to squeeze that trunk into the kitchen area if we move some things around."

It was a straightforward statement on his part, but Sadie found it slightly jarring to be reminded of exactly how _not_ well-off the Jacobs family was. She knew that their apartment was small, and she'd even been in it that one time, not long after she'd made Davey's acquaintance, but the reality of that fact was often lost on her until these little details - like the fact that the Jacobs brothers shared a bed between them - came up in casual conversation. And though she knew that it was out of necessity that Davey had dropped out of school to become a newsboy, she often forgot how dire his family's situation had been - and perhaps still could be, should he fail to come up with the requisite income to offset their expenses.

_How_, she thought, _did he manage to shoulder it all without letting it crush him? _The shame of possibly falling short, of disappointing the most important people in your life, was burden enough - she knew that far too well. But to have the responsibility of your family's very survival further compounding that pressure? And then to have to figure out a way to succeed in a job you'd never done before, and to willingly give up the pursuit of something you enjoyed in the process? She wasn't a scholar in any sense of the word, but she knew that Davey loved learning, so for him to have to leave school to become a newsboy hadn't merely been exchanging one occupation for another; it had been a complete sacrifice of something that he was passionate about (and rightfully should have been free to devote himself to) in exchange for something that he seemed to struggle with and did not enjoy.

What kind of strength would it take to be able to bear that burden as well as he did?

"If you think that wouldn't be advisable, I'd completely understand," Davey said, breaking into her thoughts.

"No, it's a great idea!" Sadie remonstrated. "I'm sorry, I wasn't hesitating, I was only just distracted for a moment."

"Well, I suppose we could just start and see how much we can fit in the office," Davey suggested matter-of-factly. Sadie agreed, and they began carrying some of the larger items down the hall, methodically fitting them into whatever space they could find in the landlord's office.

"Should I get those boxes down from the shelves?" Davey asked, after they'd cleared some floor space in the unoccupied apartment. "They look like they might be small enough to fit on top of the bookshelves if your father doesn't mind us stacking them three or four high."

Sadie nodded. "Those are boxes of his old ledgers," she said. "He won't need them to be close at hand, they're only for record-keeping purposes." Davey brought the ladder over to where the shelves began on the far side of the apartment and climbed up (only a few rungs high, Sadie noted grudgingly, thanks to his relatively ample height).

"How has Les been, by the way?" she asked as Davey began handing the boxes down to her. "He seems to be getting along a little better at school these last few days after that incident he got into with one of the older boys in class, but I know that sometimes the story at home is different."

Davey gave her a wry smile. "Funny you should mention it; I was actually just thinking about him on my way home." He reached for another box. "I'm trying to figure out if I should talk to my parents and ask if they'll let Les go back to selling - just for one day on the weekends at least. I think it would help him to still see the newsies regularly, and the extra income couldn't hurt. I know it would take time away from his studies, but if we extend the offer on the condition that he pays attention in class and doesn't fall behind, maybe it will help offset some of the frustration he's feeling."

"It seems like it's been a difficult transition back to school," Sadie said sympathetically. "I can certainly relate to the sentiment of preferring to be outside in the sun and the wind instead of being cooped up in a stuffy schoolroom."

"Well...you and Les are kindred spirits there." Davey handed her a box. "What about your sisters?" he asked. "I see Abby often enough, but how has Lilly been, and your oldest sister?"

"Judith is doing well, as far as we know," Sadie answered. "We're expecting a letter from her any day, and she and her family will be coming to visit us in December, so we're all looking forward to that. Mama loves to have the whole family under one roof again, even if it's only for a week or so, and I'm curious to see how tall my nephews have grown since the last time I've seen them. As for Lilly…" she reached up to take another box from Davey's hands, "...today was more difficult than usual, but the rush of seizures seems to have passed, and she's resting now. My mother's exhausted, though. Days like these take a toll on her as well as Lilly."

"I'm sorry to hear that," Davey said quietly. He descended the ladder and moved it over to the next set of shelves, but before he climbed up, he paused for a moment and regarded Sadie with a thoughtful look.

"It must be...complicated," he said, clearly choosing his words carefully, "...having Lilly at home, I mean. She's your family, so of course you'd want her to be with you...but...well, it sounds like seeing to her care can be difficult at times. Not," he added quickly, "that it negates the reasons for why you'd keep her home...but it's not simple, is it?"

It wasn't a particularly well-articulated question, and she could tell that he was already second-guessing whether or not he should have voiced it, but the fact that he was trying to understand and that he was inviting her to talk about it was rather touching, and she found herself giving him a reassuring smile.

"No, it's not simple," she agreed. "And there have been many conversations between my parents over whether or not keeping Lilly under our care is the right thing to do. There are institutions that provide oversight for people in her condition, and perhaps some of the more well-resourced ones would be able to offer excellent service, but there are others where the quality of care is questionable, and sometimes it's difficult to tell the difference at first glance. Papa and Mama have always preferred to have Lilly home with us, but it hasn't come without its challenges. Mama bears the brunt of it, but we've all had to learn how to adjust. And sometimes we wonder if Lilly would be happier elsewhere. It's difficult to know what she's thinking or feeling."

"You mentioned before that she doesn't leave the apartment," Davey said. "Has that always been the case?"

Sadie shook her head. "Growing up, I remember her coming along with us to run errands on occasion. Mama or Judith would always have to walk arm-in-arm with her in case a seizure hit, but Lilly was able to go on short walks to the grocer's or sometimes even to the confectionery - that was her favorite stop. Mama would always buy her a little bag of buttermints, which I would grouse about because I wanted chocolate instead and didn't understand why Lilly always got to choose, but now that I'm older and a bit less selfish, I know it was a good thing for me. I'm sure I would have turned out dreadfully spoiled if Lilly's presence in our family hadn't forced me to learn how to yield."

It was slightly embarrassing to admit, but it was true, and for this one anecdote that she'd given Davey about growing up with Lilly, there were dozens more - memories of canceled plans and unexpected chores and divided attention from her parents who had been - and still were - daily preoccupied with the needs of running the tenement and caring for their disabled daughter. Judith, as the oldest, had taken the challenges in stride, seeming to know intuitively how to assist their mother with Lilly's care and with the keeping of the household, but Sadie's disposition was of a different nature, and when Judith had gotten married and had moved away to Boston, the entire family had felt her absence.

"Anyway," Sadie continued, "that was several years ago. Once Lilly's seizures started getting worse, she stopped accompanying us on our errands. She doesn't seem to have the strength or the desire to go out anymore, and of course we worry about her getting hurt walking on the street or going up and down the stairs. I wish that there was more in the way of diversion that we could offer her, but she seems to be content at home, as far as we can tell."

Davey looked thoughtful, but he didn't say anything, and Sadie hastened to add, "I don't mean to misrepresent our situation - Lilly is very much a part of our family and we keep her home for our sakes just as much as for hers. She has a sweetness about her that slows our too-often hurried pace of life, and I've always believed that she can understand more than she is able to articulate. We wouldn't be complete without her. And yet…" she trailed off, a little wistfully. "Well, as you've conjectured, sometimes it's not that simple or easy."

"Do you have friends or family members close by who help with Lilly's care?"

"My mother's sewing group has been generous with their time and their resources," Sadie answered. "They come over regularly, which gives my mother some much-needed time to socialize while still being able to be close by if Lilly needs her, and sometimes they'll bring over a meal so that Mama has one less thing to do." She shook her head slightly. "Even that, however, comes at a cost. Some of them don't agree with my parents' choice to keep Lilly at home, and they take the liberty of telling Mama so. It makes it even harder for her, though she'll never say it aloud."

"It's a...slightly unconventional arrangement, isn't it?"

Sadie nodded. "Most families in our situation would have housed Lilly at an institution, not at home. We're rather unusual, I suppose - at least in our circle of acquaintance. I'm sure it would be easier if there were others we knew who were in this situation and could give us advice or guidance...but this is a path we're forging as we go, unaccompanied for now it seems."

Suddenly recalling the task at hand, she gave Davey an apologetic smile. "I'm sorry," she said quickly, brushing her hands on her skirt. "I've stalled our progress with my chatter, and you've been waiting patiently for me to finish so that you can get the rest of those boxes."

Instead of going along with her segue as she'd expected, Davey lingered at the bottom of the ladder, clearly feeling the need to say something more but perhaps unsure of how to voice it.

"Thank you for telling me," he said finally. "I'm sorry that it's been challenging for you and for Lilly and for your family...but…" he trailed off. "...well, I respect the decision you've made and the fortitude it requires to follow through with it," he concluded, his voice softening a bit. "That's not something that comes easily. It's admirable." He gave her a tiny smile, then turned back to the ladder.

"It doesn't seem like there are as many boxes on this shelf," he said, climbing up to take a closer look. "I think we should be able to fit all of them down the hall with a little room to spare."

They quickly cleared the rest of the shelves and relocated the ledgers to the landlord's office, then worked steadily for another half hour or so until they'd filled every available space. As there were still several items left that needed to be relocated, Sadie went downstairs to find her father, procuring his permission to proceed with Davey's idea of using the apartments as additional storage space. They were able to transfer nearly everything to the Becker residence, save for the one trunk that Davey had pointed out earlier. He went down to the second floor to ask his parents if they would mind housing it temporarily, and they readily agreed, so the final item in number 37 was taken to the Jacobses' apartment and accordingly stowed therein.

The now-vacant unit was ready to be occupied and only wanted a thorough sweeping, which they'd nearly finished by the time Philip Becker returned.

"Well, you've made quick work of moving all those boxes!" he said, clearly pleased as he surveyed the empty apartment. "The Halfords will be able to move in right away, thanks to your efficient work."

"The ladder's back in your office, Papa," Sadie said, sweeping up the last of the dust bunnies, "and we managed to fit everything there or into our apartment, all except for that green trunk, which Davey's family is keeping for us."

Philip gave Davey a grateful nod. "Please tell your parents I'm much obliged to them," he said. "We should be able to move the trunk back into storage by the end of the week."

"It's not a problem," Davey responded. "They said that they're happy to help."

"Well, you've all done me quite a service," the landlord smiled. Reaching into his pocket, he pulled out some coins. "Sadie," he beckoned, "why don't you take a break and go along with David to the drugstore for some ice cream or a soda? I only have one more urgent matter to attend to before dinner, and the rest can wait for an hour or two. If you head over there now, maybe your mother won't scold me for spoiling your supper."

"Thank you, Papa!" Sadie exclaimed, elated at the suggestion. She had been craving cold custard as of late.

Davey looked conflicted. "You don't need to do that, Mr. Becker," he protested. "You've done so much for me and for my family, I'm just glad that I could help. No further compensation is necessary. Really."

"Nonsense," Philip asserted heartily. "I insist."

"Come on, Davey," Sadie coaxed. "We've already satisfied your cautious predisposition by using the ladder and not climbing anything dangerous; it's only fair that we satisfy my bent for spontaneous frivolity in turn! You've already worked enough for one afternoon, and it's good to take a break every once in a while. Besides, Papa _is_ your boss, isn't he? You ought to listen to him."

"You did assert on one occasion that my daughter was rather bright, David," Philip added with a twinkle in his eye. "And it was a rather fervent assertion, if I recall correctly." He put his hand on Davey's shoulder. "Maybe you should trust her judgement in this case."

It was probably embarrassment and not the compelling nature of the argument that cowed him into submission, but whatever the case, Davey gave in.

"Thank you, Mr. Becker," he said, ducking his head a little. "I appreciate it." He turned to Sadie, giving her a look of resignation. "After you," he mumbled. She exchanged a triumphant look with her father, who winked at her in return, then promptly led the way out of the apartment.

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**A/N:** So, Sadie and Davey's conversation was only supposed to be one chapter long, but Mr. Becker - like all of my OCs - has a mind of his own and decided to throw me a curveball, so one more installment featuring these two will be coming next. Thanks for reading; I'd love to hear any comments or remarks you might have!

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Guest Review Response:

**Guest: **That would have been an interesting option for Davey and would have saved him some money, too, so I like the resourcefulness! Coincidentally, one of the OCs in this story actually is - or, more accurately, _was_ \- a shoe shiner in years past, so you can look for that coming up later on in the story. Thanks so much for sharing your thoughts! I always enjoy reading people's reactions and ideas. :)


	63. Seeing the Future

**Disclaimer: **This is a non-commercial work of fanfiction. Anything recognizable from _Newsies_ belongs to Disney and not to me.

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Chapter 63: Seeing the Future

"So, the clever and ingenious David Jacobs thinks I'm bright?" Sadie teased as she and Davey made their way down the stairs. "Assuming my father wasn't making that up, I'd sorely like to know what would have possessed you to say such a thing!"

"What do you mean?" Davey asked, still trying to get over his residual embarrassment (though he wasn't entirely sure what he had to be embarrassed about).

"I mean, I don't believe anyone's ever called me that before," Sadie answered, still sounding amused.

Davey gave her a slightly-confused look. "You _are_ smart, Sadie. I've never told you that?"

"You haven't," she replied. "But you certainly don't need to say so just to be polite, though I thank you for the compliment all the same."

"I'm not saying it just to be polite," Davey insisted. "I don't say things unless I mean them."

The fervency in his voice was probably out of place considering that she was taking a rather lighthearted approach to the subject, but he couldn't bring himself to regret it. It was true, after all - he _did_ think that she was bright, and he wouldn't have said so unless it was an honest conviction. At any rate, his words surprised her, and she didn't say anything for a moment, but once they reached the bottom of the stairs and began walking down the street, she seemed to recover her wit.

"Well, I suppose there's a first time for everything," she remarked cheerfully. "And it pleases me to know that I haven't slipped in your esteem, despite the ample opportunities you've had to observe my indifference towards academic pursuits."

_Far from it,_ Davey thought, though he chose not to disclose the sentiment aloud. "There's a difference between enjoying school and being smart," he said instead. "For some people, those two things go together, but there are others I know who don't like school at all or don't even attend it, and they're very bright. The newsies, for example. Jack's an amazing artist; he's never been to school for it, but he's taught himself how to paint, and he makes these amazing backdrops for Miss Medda, the owner of Irving Hall. Race is one of the cleverest people I know, and I don't think he's had much or any schooling to speak of. Elmer can do mental math quicker than I can, and he sometimes helps the other newsies keep track of their expenses, but he learned all of that from his dad - he hasn't been to school since he was five and has told me that he has no interest in going back. And Sniper handles his work as a newsie as well as a job at his family's laundry and has to help his parents with their bookkeeping since their grasp of English isn't as good as his. Most of the boys don't have time to go to school, and even if they did, I'm not sure that they'd care to, but they're still undoubtedly intelligent." He gave Sadie a small smile. "You're in good company."

"They all sound like such interesting people," she sighed. "I know that being a newsboy is no walk in the park, but you're making me wish that I could take a reprieve from school for just a few days to meet these friends of yours and try my hand at hawking headlines. Perhaps I'd discover a talent I didn't know I possessed!"

The last statement was said somewhat facetiously, but he could tell that she actually _did_ want to meet the newsies, and he found himself suddenly wondering if he could find a way to grant her that wish. Before he could think through the logistics of how such a scenario could be brought about, however, Sadie changed the subject.

"Speaking of the newsboys," she said, "how have things been for all of you lately? It's been…" she paused, counting in her head, "...just over a month since the strike was settled. Have the terms you negotiated with _The World_ brought about better working conditions the way you'd hoped?"

"Things are definitely better," Davey said. "We weren't able to get the newspaper prices back down to where they were before, but we did settle on a buyback policy that allows us to sell back the papers we aren't able to move. It's a relief to not have to take the loss if it's a slow day or if the headline's bad. And in general, I think it's helped _The World's_ circulation more than it's hurt it, so it's been a mutually beneficial arrangement."

"Has it made you a bit more inclined to boldly rush in against the powers that be?" Sadie asked.

Davey gave her a wry smile. "I'm not any more adventurous or impulsive, if that's what you mean," he said. "But I guess I'm a little less afraid of speaking up and a little more hopeful that sometimes things can change for the better if you're willing to take a risk and fight for what you really want. The strike probably had a lot to do with that."

"I'm sure you never imagined when you moved to Manhattan that you'd get caught up in something so big," Sadie mused.

"Never in a million years," Davey agreed. "It's a good thing I didn't know what was coming; I would have run in the opposite direction."

They turned onto Broadway, and Sadie led the way to Lenzi's Drugstore, which stood in the middle of the block between a barbershop and a delicatessen. Davey had walked past the establishment often enough, but he'd never had an occasion to go inside, though he knew that his mother had stopped by a few times to pick up supplies for his father.

"Now that the strike is over, what are you working towards at present?" Sadie asked as he held the door open so that she could enter. "Surely someone with a mind as strategic as yours wouldn't be simply content to rest on his laurels. There must be some kind of scheme brewing in the back of your head at the moment."

Davey laughed. "Actually, right now I'm just trying to figure out what my role is supposed to be with the newsies now that the strike is over. I want to support Jack and the other leaders somehow, but I don't really have any experience to offer - I have a hard enough time just selling my daily quota of papers as it is! But hopefully I'll figure that out eventually." He paused, then added, "I also want to finish school with the rest of our class, if I can. It's only one more year."

"And after that?" Sadie prompted as they sat down at the lunch counter.

"After that, I'm not sure," Davey admitted. "Find a job, I guess. Try to figure out a way to work for positive change wherever I end up." He shrugged, giving her a small smile. "Sorry if that's a disappointing answer. I do want my work - and my life - to count for something, but I don't know what that something is supposed to be yet. The strike was...empowering, I guess you could say. It gave me something clear to fight for. I'm not sure what I'm supposed to be fighting for now."

It was one of the most honest disclosures he'd ever made regarding his struggles to adjust after the strike, and he found himself once again amazed that he'd confided in her so readily. But he shouldn't have been surprised - she had a way of drawing him out that was so natural and easy that he didn't even realize how much he was divulging until the words had already left his mouth.

"Sometimes the simple tasks of each day can be challenging enough," Sadie offered, breaking into his thoughts. He looked over at her, and her smile was kind. "It's probably ill-advised to go looking for battles to fight; they're sure to come along in due time, and when it's your battle, you'll know. Moments of peace and simplicity are rare enough without us rushing to leave them behind. We shouldn't feel bad for enjoying them."

He remembered her expressing a similar sentiment before when he'd been disclosing his concerns about the strike, and he felt the same odd sense of reassurance settling upon him as he reflected on her words. The anxieties of both the present and the future continued to hum in the back of his mind...but somehow the simple reminder that it was perfectly fine to enjoy the moment kept those concerns from feeling so overwhelming, at least for the present.

"On that note," Sadie said, bringing him back once again, "you now have a difficult decision to make." She gestured to the letter board on the wall. "The ice cream options are there on the right, but if you'd prefer a soda, they've got quite a selection as you can see."

Davey scanned the menu. There were so many choices that he wasn't sure how to sort through them all, and he still felt a little uneasy knowing that he was spending Mr. Becker's money on something as unnecessary as a treat, but if the landlord was going to be generous, Davey knew that he ought to put aside his scruples and savor the unexpected gift.

Finding himself a little thirsty, he made his decision. "I'll take a Coca-Cola," he told Sadie.

"Are you sure that's all you want?" she asked. "They've got lots of flavors, some that you can't get just anywhere, and you can order your soda with ice cream, too. You don't want to try something different?"

"Not adventurous, remember?" Davey smiled. "Just getting to have something cold to drink will be enough of a treat for me. And Coca-Cola's nostalgic, I guess you could say." He'd only had it twice before in his life: the first time was when he'd been seven and his father had shared a sip of the soda with him when they'd gone out to eat lunch to give Esther (then pregnant with Les) some much-needed time alone to rest. The second time was when they'd just moved to a new apartment and he and Les had been given some change to go to the drugstore after school, their parents perhaps sensing that the move had been hard on them and that a little treat could offset the burden, even if only for an afternoon.

"If you're sure," Sadie nodded. She hailed the soda jerk who came over to assist them.

"What can I get you two this afternoon?" he smiled.

"One Coca-Cola and one large cold custard, please," Sadie answered, setting some coins on the counter.

"Coming right up!" The young man swept the money into his hand and opened up the cash register to set it inside, then washed his hands briskly at the sink behind the counter. He picked up a glass and poured some syrup into it, then turned the spigot of the soda fountain and filled the glass with carbonated water.

"One Coca-Cola," he said, setting the beverage down between Sadie and Davey. "And…" he bent low and reached into the long icebox that sat behind the counter, "one large cold custard." Out came a shallow glass dish with a creamy-looking concoction resting in it.

"You want one or two straws for the drink?" the soda jerk asked.

"Just one," Sadie answered before Davey had time to get flustered by the question. "But may we have an extra dish and spoon for the custard, please?"

"Not a problem." Another dish and spoon appeared.

"Anything else I can get you folks?" the soda jerk asked, setting down some napkins.

"That will be all, thank you," Sadie smiled.

He gave her a little salute in return. "Well, just call if you think of anything. Enjoy!"

"Here, Davey," Sadie said, enthusiastically spooning half of the custard into the extra bowl. "You have to try this. It's _heavenly_." She set the dish in front of him, giving him an eager smile.

"Are you sure? I don't need to eat half of your dessert," he protested (though he had to admit that the custard _did_ look good).

"You'll want to eat every bite of it once you've tried it," she promised. "I ordered a large for a reason. You may not be venturesome by nature, but I did promise that I'd do my best to make an impulsive boy out of you, so getting you to at least _try _a new dessert would be progress in the right direction." She motioned to the custard. "Please, just give it a try."

He did as she insisted, and immediately found that she was right - the custard _was_ delicious, sweet and creamy and cold with just a hint of vanilla layered into its velvety texture, and before Davey knew it, he'd devoured his entire portion and looked up from the empty dish to see Sadie regarding him with an amused expression.

"Was it any good?" she joked.

He set down the spoon. "I don't remember the last time I ate a dessert that tasty," he answered. "Thank you."

"See, Davey? Branching out can be fun sometimes." Sadie took a bite of her own serving, looking a little smug. "Anyhow," she continued, "where were we before we got sidetracked on the important business of sodas and custard and the like?"

"We were talking about the future," Davey said, taking a sip of his soda. He wondered, belatedly, if he should have offered her some of his drink since she'd split her dessert with him and it was only polite to return the favor, but he hadn't thought about asking for another glass.

"What about you?" he asked, pushing aside his uneasiness and hoping that he wasn't being rude by not offering to share. "What are your plans after you're done with school? Will you take on more hours at the tailor's, or are you hoping to pursue something else altogether?"

To his surprise, the question seemed to trouble her, and she didn't say anything for a moment, taking another deliberate bite of custard before answering.

"It's possible that I could continue to work at the tailor's and perhaps take on further responsibilities there," she answered vaguely. "Mr. Gorham has hinted at the opportunity before, and the thought _has_ crossed my mind."

"But it's not what you really want?" Davey asked, surprising himself with the follow-up question. He normally wouldn't have pressed her - he could see that she wasn't entirely comfortable discussing it - but the sad look that had crossed her face only moments ago had tugged at something in him, and he'd found the candid question leaving his mouth before he could stop it.

Sadie, from what he'd observed, seemed to have an unwavering demeanor of cheerful optimism and good humor when it came to discussing matters of her personal life. She often laughed off subjects before they could turn too serious or steered the conversation away from herself with the adroitness of someone who was truly interested in others, but also knew how to parry. She was more than adept at drawing Davey out...but he hadn't been able to get her to disclose much about herself in return (the conversation they'd had about Lilly earlier in the afternoon was one of the few exceptions).

And so, instead of retracting his question, he waited. He could tell that she hadn't expected him to be so forthright, and that she was weighing how to answer.

"I'm grateful that I have a reliable work situation available to me after I finish school," she finally said, speaking with a hesitance that seemed almost out-of-character. "It's a relief to know that someone would want my services, and it's very generous of Mr. Gorham to keep a position open in case I'd like to assume it..." she trailed off. "But I suppose...if I'm being entirely honest with myself...it's not necessarily what I'd really want." She gave him a small, almost guilty, smile. "It sounds terribly ungrateful and foolish, doesn't it?"

"No, not at all," he answered quickly. "There's nothing wrong with having hopes and dreams that don't fall in line with your present reality." Before the strike, the statement would have been ironic coming from him, but in the past month and a half he'd gotten a taste of what could be, the tantalizing rush of grasping the near-impossible and _actually attaining_ what had only been an aching thought or a fleeting hope before. And even though his pragmatic self knew that this wouldn't - couldn't - be the case in every circumstance, and even though he had no idea what _he _even wanted at the present moment, he couldn't help but wish that she could experience what he'd been fortunate enough to have walked through already - the exhilarating and gratifying thrill of a dream that, against all odds, had somehow crystalized into reality.

"So, setting aside the practical considerations and the expectations of other people, if you could do anything, what would it be?" he prompted.

Sadie looked away, scraping her spoon lightly against the almost-empty custard dish. "I'm sure any scenario I could dream up would be rather absurd," came her deflection.

"I've heard some pretty outlandish wishes," Davey persisted, thinking of the newsies. "Just because they're a stretch doesn't mean that they're not important."

She didn't say anything, and he wondered if he'd overstepped, but he was intrigued by this suddenly serious side of her, a side that he'd only seen fleeting glimpses of in the past. She'd brushed over those moments of gravity quickly at the time, and he'd been too hesitant and too slow to investigate further...but now that he'd caught her, he didn't want to let the moment pass without at least putting up a little resistance. At the very least, he wanted her to know that he cared about what she had to say.

Before he could give voice to his thoughts, Sadie broke the silence.

"I suppose," she said slowly, "that if I was to apply myself seriously to the question, I would like to do something to help families with people like Lilly. Not with her specific condition, per se. But families who have chosen to keep their disabled loved ones at home. To make more resources and support available to them so that they wouldn't feel so isolated." She brushed at her skirt. "I'm not sure what that would really look like, or what _I_ could do to offset the problem...but it's been on my mind for several weeks now. It's not really all that exciting or realistic, but - " She stopped abruptly. "Well, as you can see, I haven't thought it through very well," she finished.

"Anyway, I can't even manage to boil potatoes without ruining them, so I doubt I'll be able to come up with any grand plans for improving a system that's been around for years," Sadie continued. "I suppose I ought to be thinking more about the future, though - it's coming, whether we like it or not, and we can certainly have a say in shaping it, as you and your fellow newsboys have proven!"

The brightness in her voice was clearly forced, and Davey found himself wishing that he could come up with the words to dispel the sadness that was behind it, but as usual, Sadie was too quick for him.

"One day, when I've had more opportunity to reflect on my own scattered thoughts regarding this matter, perhaps I'll have to consult with you on how one goes about changing the world," she said, a bit of her lightheartedness returning. "In any case, it was kind of you to humor me on the subject." She turned back to her custard.

"I wasn't humoring you, Sadie," Davey said quietly, finding himself unable to return so easily to blithe conversation. "I really wanted to know. And I think it's a good idea. There's clearly a need for the kind of resources you mentioned, and you know the reality of that better than most people. It makes sense that you'd want to bring about the kind of change that would help not just your family, but others struggling with the same things." He paused, then added gently, "Don't sell yourself short."

He saw her falter just a bit as she set her spoon down.

"Well...thank you for your assurance," she said. "I…" She trailed off again, biting her lip.

Davey waited silently.

Finally, Sadie looked up at him. "I'm sorry," she said frankly. "I was just caught off guard by the question. My...family went through a rather difficult season a little over a year ago, and I confess that I haven't thought so much about my future plans or dreams since then." She gave him a small smile. "But perhaps now that you've brought them again to my attention, I'll need to think on them further - "

"Aaand how was the custard, folks?" the cheerful voice of the soda jerk interjected. He cleared away the empty dishes and spoons and set them in the sink.

"Lovely as always," Sadie said, recovering quickly from the interruption. "It never disappoints."

"Happy to hear it," he grinned at her. "If you need anything else, just let me know." After giving the counter a quick wipe-down, he went to attend to another customer.

"Davey, you've hardly touched your soda," Sadie observed. "Is there anything wrong with it?"

"No, not at all," he said quickly. The Coca-Cola was exactly how he remembered it, and he'd been drinking it slowly, savoring it because he wasn't sure when he'd get to have it again, but now he realized that at the rate he was going, they'd easily be sitting there another half hour before he finished his beverage. He'd also been preoccupied with trying to wrap his mind around Sadie's disclosure and had, at moments, even forgotten that the drink was in front of him.

"There's no rush," Sadie said teasingly as he took a long sip. "You won't enjoy it if you gulp it down that way."

"We should be heading back," Davey answered. "I know your father said he was fine taking care of things for the time being, but it would probably help if we were there."

"True," Sadie sighed. "He certainly knew what he was doing, sending you along with me to make sure that I didn't merely loaf around and neglect to return at a reasonable hour." She gave him a cheeky grin. "Perhaps you'll make a responsible girl out of me before I manage to make an impulsive boy out of you."

"You got me to come here," Davey pointed out, returning the smile. "So if I get you to go back, we'll call it a draw."

"Fair enough," she agreed.

The conversation after that was lighthearted and easy, and eventually Davey finished his drink and they left the drugstore, turning their steps in the direction of the tenement as the sun began to sink low in the sky. Sadie didn't say much, seemingly content to walk in companionable silence, and Davey found himself similarly contemplative and thankful to have some time to reflect.

He'd stumbled upon another side of Sadie that afternoon that he hadn't expected, and it had been both surprising and gratifying somehow. He hadn't managed to truly get to the bottom of what had troubled her, and the brief disclosure she'd made about her family's difficult time made him wonder, but he sensed that now was not the time to press the issue. She'd let him in - if only for a moment - and perhaps in time she would feel comfortable enough to share the rest of the story with him and reveal how it intertwined with her dream. When she did, he hoped that he'd be able to find a way to help her untangle things. After everything she'd done for him, it was the least that he could do.

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**A/N:** There's a lot more to Sadie Becker than meets the eye. Thanks for reading, friends! I'd love to hear what you thought of this chapter if you're willing to share. :)

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Guest Review Responses:

**AetherlightGirl**: Welcome back! It's great to hear from you, and thank you for the kind words - I appreciate them, and I'm happy to hear that you're still enjoying SWW. :) That's so cool that your dance studio did a performance of Annie/Newsies - that's a fun mashup, and I'm sure it was amazing! Rewatching Newsies is always a worthwhile pastime, too. ;) No need to apologize - I enjoyed reading what you shared. Thank you very much for the review! :)

**Guest**: Thanks so much for taking the time to share your thoughts! I'm thrilled that you'd want to read through this story again, and I appreciate your feedback that SWW serves well as a whole and not just in installments. Sometimes that's a tricky thing to pace out as a writer, so it was helpful to hear.

I also really liked the insight that you shared about Davey's blue shirt and the color as a symbol of leadership for the Manhattan newsies! Color use in this story is very intentional (in particular, Davey's blue and Sadie's apricot/orange, which both carry their traditional color symbolism (blue symbolizing depth, trustworthiness, intelligence, etc. and orange symbolizing joy, enthusiasm, encouragement etc.) _and_ are opposites on the color wheel (meaning that they're complementary colors)), but I'd never thought about the specific application you'd mentioned before. It fits so well and gives new meaning to the costumes and characters in the musical. Thank you for sharing that! I'm going to be thinking about it the next time I watch _Newsies._ :)

I also agree with what you said about how Davey's clothing choices show that he has options and privilege compared to the newsies and similar to Katherine, though perhaps not to the same degree. There's actually a chapter coming up (eventually) that explicitly deals with this idea of privilege - and the fact that it's relative, and that Davey's kind of in the middle - and clothing plays an important part in catalyzing that realization, so you can be on the lookout for this motif to show up later on in the story. Davey's blue shirt will also continue to serve as a symbol all the way to the end.

Thank you again for sharing and for the review! I enjoyed reading your thoughts :)


	64. Necessary Persistence

**Disclaimer: **This is a non-commercial work of fanfiction. Anything recognizable from _Newsies_ belongs to Disney and not to me.

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Chapter 64: Necessary Persistence

The third floor of _The Sun_ was bustling with activity as Katherine made her way over to the little alcove that housed her desk. Waving hello to Thom and Lena who were across the room poring over a newspaper spread, she set down the substantial sheaf of papers she'd been carrying, stacking them neatly off to one side. Then she reached down and opened the bottom drawer of her desk.

There, sitting exactly where she'd left it nearly two months ago, was her typewriter.

Carefully, Katherine reached in and pulled out the machine, setting it on her desk centered in front of her chair, an inch and a half away from the edge, just the way she liked it. She sat down, checked to make sure that the margins of the typewriter were set correctly, unlocked the paper guide, and slid a clean sheet behind the roller. Then she turned the cylindrical knob until the paper appeared. She adjusted her chair until she found the perfect position, reached over to push the carriage to the right...and then began to type.

Her fingers danced over the smooth, circular keys as though they'd never left, and she found the words flying onto the page as the rhythmic clatter of the typewriter filled the air. It was exhilarating to be once again putting ink to paper...

If only she'd been writing her _own_ article instead of simply typing out the notes from the news editors' last executive meeting.

Katherine sighed, blowing her bangs out of her face as she continued transcribing. Taking the minutes for her supervisors was significantly more stimulating than addressing envelopes or running errands for the office, but she longed to be writing again, putting her own words down on the page, watching them appear one after the other in neat, orderly lines, somehow emerging coherently from the jumble of excited thoughts in her head. Even a flower show review would have been a welcomed assignment at this point, if only she could be composing her own articles!

Despite the fact that the strike had been settled, Pulitzer's ban on her as a reporter had not lifted, and Katherine's supervisors at _The Sun_ had reluctantly upheld the newspaper mogul's orders...though they'd also quietly given her an opportunity to take on more responsibilities. Before, she'd been doing the menial work of an office clerk, but now her duties more closely resembled that of a higher-level secretary. Being asked to step in for an absent coworker to take the minutes for the editors' meeting had been only one of these more recent (if temporary) jobs, and while they were still a far cry from a reporter's freedom, they didn't wear on Katherine the way her previous assignments had.

And, occasionally, the meetings she attended were actually very interesting.

Katherine forced herself to attend to her task, her eyes moving methodically between the notes on her desk and the piece of paper in her typewriter that was rapidly filling up with words. Once she finished this transcription, she would be free to leave for lunch, and then she could mull over the concerning information she'd heard just an hour ago without being interrupted. Her mind was already awhirl with questions and fears and possibilities, and she was eager to give full vent to them as soon as she could get away -

"Well, well, back at the typewriter, I see," drawled a voice over her shoulder.

Katherine jumped, barely catching herself before she mis-typed, then turned with deliberate iciness to see the odious assistant editor of _The Sun_ standing behind her, unprofessionally close to her desk.

How long had he been there without her noticing, she wondered?

"What can I do for you, Mr. Raber?" she asked cooly.

"Clarence, Katherine - Clarence," the man purred. "We certainly don't need to stand on ceremony." He leaned down to murmur in her ear, "I was wondering if you had any plans for lunch this afternoon?"

"Actually, I have an appointment," Katherine said, leaning away to put some distance between them. _Did this man never quit?_

"There you go again, always busy," Raber sighed as he straightened up. "I'm almost beginning to think you're avoiding me on purpose."

Katherine said nothing; it was the most charitable response she was capable of at the moment.

"I'll leave you to your appointment," Raber said, backing away. "But mark my words, Katherine, next time I won't be put off so easily." The statement was accompanied by a smile that was probably meant to be charming, but it made her stomach turn.

Muttering under her breath, Katherine resumed her typing. Raber had been less of a nuisance than usual when she'd been working as a clerk - her frequent errands and trips to the other floors of the building had kept her away from her desk and made her more difficult to corner - but he'd been annoyingly persistent over the past few days, and his patience was clearly wearing thin with her repeated brush-offs.

Well, she'd deal with the next situation when it arose. Right now, she had a job to do.

Channeling her irritation into her task, Katherine quickly finished typing up the minutes, then placed them in a file folder and left them with the executive editor's secretary. She returned to her desk to tidy it up and put her typewriter away, then grabbed her handbag and made her way downstairs and out of the building.

She was due to meet Jack at Claro's for lunch at a quarter after noon, which meant that if she didn't keep a brisk pace, she would probably be a minute or two late, but he could always sell in front of the restaurant if he needed to kill time while he was waiting. She was generally the more punctual of the two of them, anyway, so maybe she'd still manage to arrive before him.

She wondered what his reaction would be to her sobering news.

Jack had actually been a little more sober himself lately. She wasn't sure if it was the result of their conversation when she'd asked him about his plans for the future or if there was something going on at the lodging house that was weighing on his mind, but he'd been notably more serious over the past week.

Katherine hadn't intended to bring up the future with Jack so soon, but the terse conversation with her father - and Pulitzer's unexpected remarks about Jack's lack of future-forward thinking - had stuck with her, and she'd found herself just wanting to put the topic on the table for discussion. She loved the fact that Jack was spontaneous and passionate, and she didn't want to quell those things by forcing him into a commitment that he wasn't ready for, but they were getting closer and closer with each passing week, and she didn't want to go too much farther without at least knowing where he stood, and if he saw a future in this unlikely whirlwind romance of theirs.

It turned out that he'd needed some more time to think about it.

The answer had been secretly disappointing to Katherine, but she understood, and she knew that he was giving her the most honest answer that he could, so she'd thanked him for telling her, and they'd agreed to let the matter be. If Jack hadn't concurrently decided to give the cartoonist job at _The World _a try, Katherine would perhaps have been more concerned, but at least he was moving in the direction of a more financially stable situation, and that action was reassuring, even if there had been no words to back it up. He was a newsie, after all - he'd always lived life free and on the go, tied down to nothing and no one. To expect him to suddenly be willing to change all that was probably asking for too much.

Katherine waited as a carriage rolled past her, then quickly walked across the street to Claro's. Jack was already waiting for her outside, surprisingly on time, and his face split into a grin as he caught sight of her.

"Hey, Plumber!" He pulled her in for a quick kiss as she arrived. "How'd your mornin' go?"

"It was interesting," Katherine said, smiling at his enthusiastic affection. "I'll tell you more over lunch."

"I'm starvin'," Jack agreed. They made their way inside the deli. It was smaller than Jacobi's, and the menu was more limited, but it also afforded a privacy that the newsie-frequented establishment did not, and the sandwich offerings were consistently good.

Jack ordered a brisket sandwich while Katherine opted for egg salad and an order of coleslaw to share between them.

"I got it this time," Jack said, reaching into his newsboy bag to pull out some coins. "The mornin' edition was a good one - sold twenty extra papes without breakin' a sweat, so I'm rollin' in the money right now." He winked at her before paying the cashier.

Katherine thanked him, and they chatted for a few minutes while they waited for their order to be ready. Jack seemed relaxed and happy as he told her about some of the interesting customers he'd run across that morning, and she could hear in his voice how much he enjoyed this aspect of his life as a newsie.

Though Jack had promised to at least try out the cartoonist job with _The World,_ he had yet to actually meet with Pulitzer about it - the newspaper mogul's schedule was busy, and Hannah hadn't been able to get an appointment scheduled until the beginning of the following month, but that day would be coming soon, and at that point, depending on how demanding the position turned out to be, Jack's energies would be split. As much as Katherine was eager to see him settle into (and hopefully like) his new job, she was glad he had these last few weeks to enjoy simply being a newsie.

The sandwiches and coleslaw arrived, and they took them over to a corner table near the back of the deli.

"So, what's this interestin' news you's wantin' to tell me?" Jack asked, unwrapping his sandwich and taking a bite.

Katherine set the dish of coleslaw between them and then pulled the paper wrapping away from her own sandwich before replying.

"It actually has to do with The Refuge," she said.

Jack stopped eating.

"The Refuge?" he repeated. She could tell that he was trying to affect nonchalance, but she could hear the uneasiness in his voice. "Figured it was gonna be shut down, with Snyder bein' jailed and all that."

"That's what we hoped," Katherine agreed. She put down her sandwich and reached across the table to take Jack's hand. "I don't want to worry you unnecessarily," she said soberly, "but for your sake, and for the sake of your boys, I think you need to know. I was in a meeting this morning with the editors for _The Sun,_ and they were discussing some breaking news and which stories they were going to prioritize for the upcoming week. One of the recent issues that was brought to their attention was The Refuge." She squeezed Jack's hand, wanting to offset the distressing news she was about to impart in any way she could. "It's been operational this whole time, Jack. Snyder is still in jail awaiting trial, but until a complete investigation can be mounted, his superintendents are running the place, and they've continued to bring boys in off of the streets on a regular basis."

Jack's expression flickered, a look of distress crossing his face, and he gripped her hand tightly. "I thought he was gone for good," he almost whispered, his voice sounding scared and distant. "I thought we was finally safe…guess I shoulda known...shoulda known that it wouldn't be that easy..."

"Jack - Jack, it's going to be _fine!_" Katherine said firmly, dismayed at the sudden hopelessness in his voice. "It's only something to be aware of - you'll need to warn the newsies so that they can stay on their guard for just a while longer. Snyder is still going to stand trial for what he's done - we just need a little more time for the system to kick in."

"How much more time?" Jack demanded, suddenly sounding irate. "And what good is it gonna do if The Refuge stays open?"

"An investigation of the facilities is supposed to be part of the process," Katherine reminded him. "Governor Roosevelt promised us that it would be. We just need to be patient and on our guard until then."

Jack made a sound of frustration, shaking his head. "It's been two months," he muttered. "How do we know they ain't just forgettin' about it?"

Katherine didn't say anything, not wanting to admit that he could be right. Governor Roosevelt, she was sure, had made his promise with every intention of keeping it, but Katherine also knew enough about politics to know that sometimes things had a way of falling through the cracks. And that was a sobering thought for the newsies - Snyder or no Synder, as long as The Refuge was operational, the corruption and abuse would continue, and Jack and his boys would have to constantly live in fear of being apprehended.

They needed to find a way to shut down the place for good.

"Can't ya do anything?" Jack pleaded, breaking into Katherine's thoughts.

"What do you want me to do, Jack?"

"I dunno!" he exclaimed, scratching his head. "Can't you and Miss Medda convince Governor Roosevelt to do somethin'? Maybe speed up the investigation?"

Katherine hesitated. "I suppose we could visit his office and try to make an appeal again," she said. She didn't think there was much chance of that working a second time, but it couldn't hurt to try. "I just don't want to count on it…"

"Then write another one of your articles or somethin', the way you did for the strike!" Jack suggested. "Get the city on our side - expose what's been goin' on at The Refuge this whole time, and remind the folks in power that it ain't goin' away unless they take action and do somethin' about it!"

The suggestion was both surprising and compelling in its simplicity, and the reporter in Katherine stirred.

"No one will publish my work anymore, Jack," she said cautiously, even as her mind began to whirl with possibilities. "My father hasn't lifted his ban. Even my supervisors at _The Sun,_ sympathetic as they are, won't defy his orders."

"Well can't ya write under another name or somethin'?" Jack asked.

Katherine's eyes widened. "Jack! That is _genius_!" she exclaimed. It wasn't a foolproof solution by any means - she'd still need someone on the inside, preferably at the top, who'd be willing to look the other way and accept her article, but if said article was compelling enough...

There was only one problem.

"I'll have to figure out a way to convince the editors at _The Sun _that they need to follow up on The Refuge," Katherine said, speaking aloud for Jack's benefit but really trying to talk through things for herself. "In the meeting this morning, they'd decided it wasn't big enough news to cover, so I'll need to come up with something really good if we want to change their minds. I should probably try to do some research on The Refuge, too - we'll only get one shot at this, so we'll need to make it count."

She looked at Jack. "Do you think you and the newsies would be willing to talk about your experiences there?" she asked. "The article will be more compelling if I can share some personal stories."

Jack considered. "Guess it couldn't hurt to try," he said, sounding hesitant. "Maybe avoid askin' Crutchie, though. And Racer."

Katherine nodded. "I'll tread carefully." She was excited to begin working, but knew that she needed to approach things slowly and methodically. This was a story that needed to be written in just the right way, and she needed to gather as much evidence as possible so that once she made her case, it would be impossible to ignore.

"Jack," she said, "I'll get to work on this right away, but I want you to know that the turnaround time won't be quick. It could take days, maybe even weeks, to gather the information I need on The Refuge and to write this article - and that's assuming that I'll be able to find someone to publish it once I do."

Jack nodded in understanding. "'S'okay, Plumber," he said, giving her a half-smile. "I ain't worried about it anymore - we got the best reporter in New York on the case now." He settled back into his seat, looking a little more at ease. "I'll tell the fellas to watch each other's backs and look out for Snyder's goons in the meantime while you's workin' on that article. And whenever you's ready to start askin' 'em questions, you go ahead and feel it out with them."

He picked up his sandwich and was about to take another bite, but before he did, he looked at her and his smile grew a little.

"I really appreciate it, Kath," he said plainly. "I know it ain't gonna help your career much...takin' up all your time with this side project and publishin' the article with someone else's name on the front…"

Katherine shook her head. "This isn't about my career, Jack," she said firmly. "This is about helping you and the newsies. We _have_ to get this resolved. As soon as I'm done with my work today, I'm going to start thinking about who at the office might be sympathetic to our cause. If worst comes to worst and I can't find an ally at _The Sun,_ I have a backup plan."

The backup plan involved a certain young man at _The Tribune_, to be exact...but she didn't think that it was necessary to divulge that detail at the moment. She would share the information if and when the time came.

"And who knows?" she added hopefully, returning Jack's smile. "Maybe in the next few days Governor Roosevelt will take action himself, and all this will all get resolved."

"Yeah," Jack said half-heartedly. "Guess that could happen." His eyes met hers. "But if it don't…"

Katherine returned his determined look. "If it don't, then we break this story wide open."

* * *

**A/N:** And the plot thickens, thanks to a lag in the governmental process. :P We'll be checking in with our resident antagonist in next week's installment, which will also feature Race and Crutchie making a surprising discovery. I hope you'll join me! Thank you for reading this chapter; it would make my day if you'd let me know what you thought of it! :)

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Guest Review Responses:

**AetherlightGirl: **Hello! I'm glad that you enjoyed the fluff - I know this isn't exactly the most lighthearted of stories, and that it's kind of a quirky romance on top of that, so I appreciate you hanging in there. :) We'll have a few more serious chapters coming up dealing with a couple of important subplots, but after that there will be a stretch of fluffy ones - probably the most fluff we've had in this story at any point - so I hope you'll enjoy that! Sadie will eventually get to meet the newsies, too. :) Thank you for your kind words!

**Guest: **Thank you so much! :) Sadie will eventually get to meet the newsies (she'll have a run-in with one of them a few chapters from now, and will get to officially meet a handful more of them in a later installment), so I'm glad you're looking forward to it! Thank you so much for sharing! :)


	65. Unaccounted For

**Disclaimer: **This is a non-commercial work of fanfiction. Anything recognizable from _Newsies_ belongs to Disney and not to me.

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Chapter 65: Unaccounted For

The bells in St. Peter's were just beginning to chime five o'clock as Oscar slid the metal bars of the circulation window open, ready to begin processing newspaper buy-backs for the day. It was still early, and the distribution center appeared to be empty, but you never knew when some guttersnipe newsie might come plodding through the gates with a stack of papers ready to sell back.

Slouching idly behind the counter, Oscar watched as people made their way past on the street outside of the circulation gate. His Uncle Wiesel had already left for the day, and Morris was nowhere to be found, so that left Oscar to run things by himself, but it also meant he didn't have to answer to anyone, and he didn't mind that tradeoff.

His solitude was short-lived however. No sooner had he settled into a comfortable position when Racetrack Higgins came sauntering through the gate looking pleased as punch despite the fact that he had a sizable stack of papers under his arm. Oscar was surprised to see that the seasoned newsie was giving up so early; even the less-experienced headline hawkers normally wouldn't quit until it started getting dark.

"You selling those back?" Oscar asked gruffly as the other boy stepped up to the window.

"Nah," Higgins replied sarcastically. "Just knew you'd be missin' me, so I figured I'd stop by to keep you company." He set his stack of papers down on the counter and pushed them towards Oscar, who received them with a scowl.

"You're getting lazy, Higgins," he remarked as he began to count the papers. "Already calling it a day when the sun hasn't even set yet."

"Dear me, is that right?" asked Higgins glancing around himself in mock confusion. "I guess I wasn't payin' attention to the time." He grinned. "The fact is, I just won big at the card table - the poor sap didn't even know what hit 'em - and I'm takin' the rest of the day off to celebrate." The gambler's tone was gloating, and there was a gleam in his eye that irked Oscar. He couldn't figure out why, but he had the distinct impression that Higgins was silently laughing at him.

Oscar _hated_ that feeling.

Counting out the pennies that he owed in return for the papers, the older Delancey brother pushed the change through the window with more force than necessary. "Beat it, Higgins," he growled.

"Sure thing, Oscar," came the jovial answer. "A word of advice, though…" The newsie tucked the change into his bag, then looked up, that same impish gleam in his eye. "You might wanna help your brother work on his countin'." And before Oscar could respond, Higgins gave him a cheeky little wave, then turned on his heel and sauntered away, whistling as he went.

_Counting? _Oscar wondered. What had the upstart newsie meant by that? His expression settled into a sullen frown as he watched Higgins leave the distribution center.

_Where _was _Morris, anyway? _

No sooner had the thought crossed Oscar's mind when he saw his brother come slinking through the back door, looking glum.

"Where've you been?" Oscar demanded.

"Nowhere," Morris answered, settling himself onto a stool next to Oscar. "Just wasn't paying attention to the time."

The same words Higgins had used - but it had to have been a coincidence.

"Well, we've got about another hour and a half," Oscar said, checking the small clock Wiesel kept behind the distribution counter. "You still want to stop by the pub on the way home?"

Morris glanced at him. "Sure...if you don't mind spotting me."

Oscar gave him a suspicious look. "We just got paid yesterday," he reminded his brother. "What happened to all your money?"

"Left it at home," Morris shrugged, almost defensively. "I forgot we were going to the pub tonight."

Oscar frowned. He wouldn't put it past his brother to neglect something like that, but still…

"All right, I'll take care of it," he said shortly. He wasn't going to give up a drink after work just because his brother was being an irresponsible fool. "But next time, you're paying."

"Sure," Morris agreed.

And though Oscar couldn't shake the niggling feeling that he was missing something, he said nothing more.

* * *

Race chuckled to himself as he made his way down the street. Riling up Oscar was always a worthwhile diversion, and Race knew that his cryptic statements had planted just enough suspicion in the older Delancey brother's mind to irritate him without revealing the true source of Race's unexpected winnings. Morris, of course, would be in no hurry to confess to his brother that he'd been gambled out of a week's pay (losing to a newsie, no less), and it was to Race's advantage that Oscar didn't find out, but he hadn't been able to pass up the opportunity to needle the other boy when the chance had presented itself.

The game that day had been Blackjack, which had made Race's victory even easier than usual; the younger Delancey couldn't count cards to save his life, and Race had beaten him several times that afternoon without lifting a finger. A more prudent boy than Morris would have quit before digging himself into an even deeper hole, but that strange and stubborn compulsion of his had won out, and he'd continued to play hand after hand with Race, much to the gambler's surprise and amusement, until finally Morris had gambled all of his money away.

Race grinned, relishing the memory of the other boy's almost-comical expression as he'd turned his pockets inside-out, realizing that he'd been bankrupted completely. He'd gotten up from the table where they'd been playing and had sullenly walked away without a word before Race had even finished gathering up his winnings.

Addiction to anything - whether gambling or drink or something else altogether - made fools of even the brightest of men, Race reflected, and Morris wasn't all that bright to begin with. It didn't make much sense that the younger Delancey brother would be so attached to a pastime that he was so unskilled at, but Race wasn't going to complain - Morris' loss was his gain, after all. It would have been interesting to see the younger Delancey brother face off against Davey in a game of cards to determine whose particular type of incompetence would prove superior - the former could bluff, but couldn't count; the latter, with some training, would probably be able to count cards just fine, but bluffing would be another story.

Race shook his head, chuckling again at the absurdity of the thought.

Whistling a tune he'd heard one of the middies at the harbor singing earlier that day, Race made his way back to the lodging house. Stepping inside, he greeted Kloppman (who was predictably nodding off at his desk), then headed up the stairs to the bunk room. It was still a little too early for dinner, so Race figured he'd lounge around for a bit while he waited for the rest of the newsies to finish selling and return home.

To his surprise, however, the bunk room wasn't deserted; Crutchie was there, sitting at the table in the back of the room. The cash box that held the Newsie Fund was open in front of him, and he was scrutinizing the numbers in the little notebook where a record of expenditures was kept, his brow furrowed in concentration.

"One of the boys in trouble?" Race asked, coming over to sit beside the other newsie. Crutchie was in charge of taking up collections whenever an extenuating circumstance arose where one of the newsies needed an unexpected amount of cash, more than what he could make from a normal day of selling. Whenever this happened, the other newsies would chip in whatever they could as a goodwill gesture, and sometimes, if the need was great enough, the collection would be supplemented with money from the Newsie Fund.

Crutchie finished whatever mental math he'd been doing in his head before answering. "Yeah," he said, sounding uncharacteristically tired. "Henry's got a situation at home - his brother was one of the strikin' trolley workers who got beat up and he's been recoverin' at home, but his ma's had to take some time off work to care for him, so they's in a tight spot right now with the rent bein' due. Henry didn't want us to help him out, but I told him that family looks out for each other, and the rest of the fellas agreed."

Crutchie held out the tin can where the collections were received, and Race peered into it curiously, giving a low whistle when he saw what was inside. Clearly, he wasn't the only one who could afford to spare some change today.

"Here, lemme chip in too," he said, digging into his pocket and dropping some coins into the can.

Crutchie hefted the receptacle in his hand before setting it down on the table. "Pretty sure we ain't gonna have to touch the Newsie Fund this time," he said, sounding satisfied. "Should be enough in there to cover what Henry said he needed. That'll be a load off his shoulders."

Race nodded. It was generally understood that anything taken from the Newsie Fund would eventually be paid back (unless those funds had gone to finance something for the group as a whole), but collections were free-will offerings - nothing was expected in return.

"Guess the fellas must've been able to move the papes easily today," he remarked. "Seems like there's a little more to go around than usual."

"It don't hurt havin' few more chippin' in," Crutchie pointed out. "Davey and Tucker both threw in some money - I ain't seen Artie yet, but he seems like the kind who'd want to help out, too."

"So why the long face?" Race asked, elbowing the other newsie lightly in the arm. "Usually you's happy when the collectin' goes well, and this is one of the biggest we've got in a while."

Crutchie exhaled - a half-laugh and a half-sigh. "I ain't bothered 'bout the collection," he clarified. "Just a little confused about this." He pointed to the notebook. "Can't make sense of why the numbers here ain't linin' up with the money we got left in the Newsie Fund."

Race craned his neck, looking at the page Crutchie indicated.

"Probably my fault," he said, after scrutinizing the numbers for a moment. "We was pullin' outta that thing left and right to feed the boys and pay the lodgin' house fees during the strike. I could've missed somethin' or forgotten to make a notation."

Crutchie turned to a new page in the notebook. "Well, you had your hands full," he said, writing the current balance of the Fund on the first line. "Could've happened to anyone. I'll just start with the new amount and track from there."

Race grunted his agreement. It bothered him a little that he'd made a slight mistake with the bookkeeping, but there _had_ been a lot of other things going on at the time, so he'd just have to let it go.

"You done sellin' for the day?" Crutchie asked, closing up the notebook and putting it back into the cash box with the money. Leaving the collection can out on the table, he slowly got to his feet to return the Newsie Fund to its place under the floorboards. Race would have offered to do it for him, but he knew that Crutchie wouldn't have wanted the help.

"Got lucky at the card table," he said, watching as Crutchie knelt down and deftly pried up the wooden plank. "Decided to sell back my papes and take the rest of the day off to celebrate."

Crutchie gave him a knowing look. "You wasn't hustlin' Morris again, was you?"

Race shrugged, grinning a little. "Can't help it if the bummer don't know when to stop playin'."

"You know Jack don't like us gettin' too chummy with the Delanceys, Racer." Crutchie set the cash box down, then replaced the floorboard and got to his feet, limping back over to the table. "They's stinkers, that's for sure, and maybe not too bright, but they's got a mean streak a mile long, and they ain't gonna think twice about soakin' you if they's angry enough." There was a hollowness in Crutchie's voice that Race had never heard before, and he grimaced, remembering what the other newsie had gone through at the hands of the Delancey brothers. The beating at the distribution center immediately before Crutchie's arrest had been the worst of it, but Oscar and Morris had always singled out the disabled newsie for bullying.

Race felt his anger stir. He knew why Jack discouraged the newsies from crossing paths with the Delanceys any more than was necessary - the younger ones especially had to be careful - but Race wasn't the kind to let an insult pass if he could help it. Jack was usually the first one to jump in if any of the newsies were threatened, but he generally avoided full-out brawling unless it was absolutely necessary, preferring to goad the Delanceys into a chase instead and drawing their attention elsewhere. It was probably the wiser course of action, but sometimes, Race honestly would have preferred to throw fists.

"I'll be careful, Crutch," he said, keeping his voice even for the sake of his friend. "But I ain't gonna stop Morris from practically givin' away his money, not when it's gonna line my pockets and help pay for things like Henry's family's rent," he added, gesturing to the collection can. "I ain't swindlin' that sucker - I'm beatin' him fair and square, so he's got no right to be mad about it."

Crutchie gave him a tiny grin. "Guess you's right about that," he conceded.

"You bet I am." Race leaned back in his chair. "You finish sellin' early today, too?" he asked.

Crutchie nodded. "Headline wasn't bad today," he said. "Plus, I got lucky too - I was down to my last ten papes, and this lady bought the rest of 'em off of me."

Race chuckled. "That smile of yours is a gold mine, huh?"

"I think it might've actually been the limp this time," Crutchie admitted. "But I ain't complainin'." He glanced at the clock on the lodging house wall. "Wonder how Jack's first day at _The World_ went," he mused. "Said he had to go down to the office to fill out some kinda official paperwork or somethin' - wonder if he was gonna have to talk to Pulitzer, too."

Race made a non-committal sound. He'd forgotten that _that_ was today. He hadn't really talked to Jack in a while - they saw each other in passing, of course, but had spoken little, and Race actually didn't know many of the details concerning Jack's new job, only that he'd agreed to take it and that he'd warned Race and Crutchie that he'd be gone a little more than usual once he had to balance his responsibilities at _The World_ with his duties at the lodging house.

Not that that was anything new, Race thought to himself. They'd already been seeing less and less of Jack, thanks to his growing relationship with Katherine, and while Race wasn't going to begrudge their leader his romantic trysts, he slightly resented the fact that, like it or not, the responsibility that he'd tried to fully hand back after Jack's return was slowly but surely finding him again.

At least Crutchie was back.

"Hey, did Jack say anything to you about how things have been goin' for Katherine?" Race asked. Jack had apprised the newsies of the sobering fact that The Refuge was still operational and that Snyder, while in custody, had yet to be sentenced. He'd warned everyone to be on their guard, but he'd also assured them that Katherine was on the case and that she was going to do everything in her power to dig up as much incriminating evidence on The Refuge as possible with the aim of publishing an article that would bring all of the institution's horrid offenses to light, hopefully putting enough pressure on those in power to finally shut the place down.

"Jack said she's still pokin' around tryin' to find a way to get information about The Refuge without givin' away why she's askin'," Crutchie said. "I bet they's on their guard right now, so it probably ain't gonna be easy for her, but she seems like she knows what she's doin'."

Race nodded in agreement. Katherine wasn't one to back down without a fight, that was for sure. She would need that tenacity if she was going to get the information she was looking for. The Refuge wasn't the kind of place you walked into - or out of - easily or without being irrevocably changed.

Speaking of The Refuge…

"How've you been doin' lately, Crutchie?" Race asked. He normally wouldn't have broached the subject, but it was rare that he and Crutchie were alone where they could speak freely. Race usually counted on Jack and Crutchie to keep tabs on each other - he knew that they talked almost nightly on the rooftop - but Race wanted to know for himself that Crutchie was adjusting all right. The strike had ended in victory for the newsies, but the aftermath had been more complicated than expected, and if there was one thing that Race knew had a way of haunting a person, it was a stay in The Refuge. He still hadn't managed to completely get away from his own experience there. And that had happened years ago.

It had been an open-ended question, but Crutchie seemed to know what Race had meant by it.

"Leg's still hurtin' me some," he said, shrugging a little. "And sometimes sleepin' at night's tough, but Jack's there."

_Nightmares, _Race thought. The nightmares were always the worst part of the aftereffects. No wonder Jack had been more preoccupied than usual - it hadn't just been his dates with Katherine or the anticipation of his new job keeping him so absorbed - he'd probably been losing sleep himself, comforting Crutchie and maybe even fighting off his own memories that could have resurfaced in the process.

No place should have the power to exert such misery on a person, Race thought fiercely, hoping that Katherine was finding success at that very moment in whatever investigation she was attempting. The Refuge, and Snyder, needed to go - once and for all.

"_You_ doin' all right, Race?" Crutchie asked, no doubt catching the dark look that had crossed Race's face.

"Yeah - yeah, I'm fine, Crutch," Race said, giving the other newsie a grim smile. "Just glad you's back with us, that's all. Ain't the same without'cha."

Crutchie grinned. "Guess not," he said, smirking a little. "Folks don't seem to know how to keep a simple ledger when I ain't around - I thought you was better at your numbers than that, Race."

"Ya coot!" Race smacked the other newsie with his cap, thankful for Crutchie's levity, even if the joke was being made at his expense. "I tried, all right? Keepin' the Newsie Fund ain't my expertise."

"Yeah, I guess you's better at entertainin' than addin'," Crutchie jibed, his smile sly.

"Ah, c'mon, Crutchie," Race groused. "Give a fella a break!" But he couldn't help grinning in return, secretly relieved at the lightheartedness in his friend's voice.

Crutchie was back, and though he wasn't fully recovered, he was moving in that direction, and it gave Race hope. With any luck, things would be back to normal in time, and if the efforts currently underway proved successful in taking down The Refuge, then the fear and the flashbacks and the sleepless nights would begin to fade, slowly but surely, until they no longer held any terror but were just a faintly lingering memory.

Race fervently hoped that those days were coming soon.

* * *

**A/N**: Thanks for reading, friends. These last few weeks have been really difficult, but writing this story has been both a reprieve and a much-needed distraction from everything going on, and I'm so thankful to have a small group of folks who enjoy my scribbling. I look forward to polishing up and sharing each installment with you, and I appreciate you sticking with me. :)

We'll be circling back to Jack and Katherine's investigative efforts in the next chapter before we jump back over to the main pairing for a while, but if you're at all missing the Davey/Sadie content, there's a short story that's just been posted in SWW's companion one-shot collection ("Interstices") featuring young!Sadie, which gives a little bit more of her backstory (and some of her initial thoughts on what she's romantically looking for in a boy ;)). If you'd like, feel free to check it out! In the meantime, please let me know what you thought of this chapter - I'd love to hear from you, even if it's just a word or two!


	66. Probing

**Disclaimer: **This is a non-commercial work of fanfiction. Anything recognizable from _Newsies_ belongs to Disney and not to me.

* * *

Chapter 66: Probing

"It was a pleasure to make your acquaintance, Miss Pulitzer. Thank you for your visit, and I do hope you'll have a pleasant afternoon."

Katherine forced herself to smile politely as the interim warden of The Refuge gave her a little bow and held open the gate of the property for her. He'd escorted her to the edge of the premises himself - a detail that was not lost on her - and was now waiting with thinly-concealed impatience for her to leave.

"The pleasure was mine, Mr. Drivner," she replied smoothly as she swept through the gate. "And the visit was quite educational, thank you." She gave him a little nod of her head, then started down the road, not bothering to look behind her as she did so.

"It seems rather _odd_ that the daughter of Joseph Pulitzer would make the journey back to Manhattan on foot," the warden called after her.

Katherine composed her features into a look of innocent surprise, then turned to smile sweetly at the vulture-like man. "How _kind_ of you to be concerned!" she exclaimed, trying to keep the irritation out of her voice. "I actually prefer to walk when I can. Our family physician says that sunshine is good for the constitution, and Papa doesn't mind in the slightest." Let him think that she was nothing more than a naive and overly-indulged young woman who was simply out satisfying her curiosity of how "the other half" lived - it was the persona she'd attempted to portray when she'd shown up unannounced at the door of The Refuge, and if she played it right, she could twist even this little bit of suspicion in her favor.

She'd chosen to identify herself by her birth name after some deliberation - it would only raise suspicions to announce herself as a reporter, and the Pulitzer surname at least afforded her some clout when it came to gaining entry to places that clearly did not want any visitors from the outside. She'd caught the staff by surprise - which had been her intent so that the observations she made while on the premises would be undoctored and reflective of the establishment's true condition - and while they'd initially balked at her request to tour the grounds (she'd implied -without actually saying as much - that she was visiting various institutions with the aim of determining which of them would be worthy recipients of a charitable donation from Pulitzer's large coffers), the reluctance in their eyes had been easy enough to read even as they'd agreed to her appeal.

The interim warden himself - the man who was filling in for Snyder - had personally shown her around, taking her on a circuitous route that Katherine half-suspected was meant to pull the wool over her eyes rather than actually give her a tour of the place. They'd seen some of the outdoor exercise facilities and had peeked into the refectory and the kitchen, but the dormitories and the administrative building had been left off of the itinerary, and there were several other edifices on the property that the warden hadn't even mentioned but that Katherine had an uneasy feeling about.

Before the visit ended, Katherine had asked if she could see the classrooms. The warden had agreed, but there had been a tightness in his voice that hadn't escaped her notice, and as he'd detoured them in the direction she'd requested, she could practically feel the irritation emanating off of him.

They'd interrupted one of the classes that had been in session, and Katherine had noticed how most of the pupils sat up straighter when the warden walked into the room. Some of the older ones in the back remained as they were, but she could sense the wariness in their eyes. Some of the youngest ones looked positively terrified.

Drivner had introduced her to the class and had explained the reason for her visit. He'd then called forward one of the younger students, a boy who couldn't have been much older than Les Jacobs, and pulled him over to Katherine.

"Tell Miss Pulitzer what you've been learning here," he'd commanded, and Katherine had forced herself not to wince at the sight of his bony fingers digging into the boy's arm.

The unfortunate pupil had mumbled out an answer, eliciting a sharp reprimand from Drivner who had barked at him to speak up, but Katherine had intervened at that point, saying that she'd heard everything perfectly and smiling kindly at the boy who had fled back to his seat the moment the warden released him.

They'd left the classroom shortly after that, and Drivner had escorted her to the edge of the property, but Katherine couldn't get the picture of what she'd just seen out of her head. The cramped, cheerless classroom with its dingy walls and dismal silence, the haunted look on the students' faces, the almost-fragile way some of them curled in on themselves while others ducked their heads, barely concealing the anger smoldering in their eyes...

There had been palpable fear and hatred in that room, and she couldn't shake the feeling of it, even as her steps took her further and further away from The Refuge and down the road. Thankfully, Drivner didn't say anything more to her, and when Katherine cautiously stole a glance over her shoulder, she saw that the warden had disappeared from sight.

Now free from his scrutiny, Katherine quickened her pace, a resolute determination settling over her even as her mind began to strategize. She hadn't really gotten the information she was looking for - Drivner's truncated tour had made sure of that - but she'd sensed the cruelty hovering just beneath The Refuge's veneer of stern correction and reform, and she was determined to expose it for what it was. If she couldn't get the information first-hand from her own investigation, she'd just need to interview those whose experience gave them the authority to speak on the subject. And in the meantime, she'd start feeling out who might be willing to publish her article.

Not for the first time, Katherine shook off the frustration that flared up whenever she found herself at an impasse due to her ex-reporter status. She'd assumed (perhaps too naively) that once the strike was settled, her father would have lifted his restriction on her professional activities, but he had not, and she was sure that it was deliberate, an indirect but insurmountable reminder that he was the one who really ran things in the newspaper world, and though she'd managed to defy him once, he he still held more power in his little finger than she did in her entire being.

She suspected that his curtailment had more to do with his concerns as a father and less to do with their professional rivalry (though he, of course, would never admit to that). The fact that he'd tried - in his prideful and slightly-condescending way - to look out for her by offering Jack the cartoonist job hadn't been at all out of character; she could recall several instances even previous to the strike where he had exercised his influence in a rather heavy-handed (but paternally-motivated) way, and by banning Katherine from returning to her post as a reporter, he was likely trying to steer her towards a profession that he deemed would be more appropriate for her, or else back to _The World_, where he could keep an eye on her. (Or perhaps she'd sussed it out all wrong, and he actually _did_ consider her a formidable-enough reporter where he wanted to make sure she was on his side and not writing for one of his (admittedly less-powerful) rivals).

In either case, she was sure that the man was doing it intentionally. He knew that she didn't need the money - not when the Pulitzer name and estate gave her more than enough to comfortably live off of - and perhaps he'd assumed that if he only kept her away from her typewriter long enough, in time she'd grow weary of the constant uphill battle to finally get a real story, to be seen as an equal amongst her male peers, to be given a chance to do what she _knew_ she was good at and had dreamed of doing for as long as she could remember.

If he thought she'd give up that easily, though, he was in for a rude awakening.

Katherine turned her thoughts away from her father and back to the situation at hand. She needed to figure out whom to approach first to see if there was any chance that she could get her article published under a different pen name. She'd assured Jack that she would be able to find someone willing to bend the rules for her, but now as she considered it more soberly, she found herself less sure that securing a sympathetic accomplice would be so easy.

It would have made the most sense to start at _The Sun_, but Lena, her closest ally and the one who would be most likely to even _consider_ the idea, was gone visiting her family out West for the next few weeks, and Katherine wasn't chummy enough with the other copy editors to feel comfortable broaching the subject.

Perhaps she'd need to go to her backup plan, then. She didn't want to wait weeks to move on this - what she'd seen today had been far too concerning to put aside, even temporarily. She knew that she had to give the situation time, and that she still had more investigating to do, but she had to do _something_, and if it meant taking a chance and appealing to an old friendship, so be it. She would rather try and fail than twiddle her thumbs waiting for the ideal situation to fall into her lap.

Reaching the main street off of which the path to The Refuge branched, Katherine hailed the first carriage that came within sight.

"_The Tribune_ building, please," she instructed as she climbed in, and the carriage clattered off.

* * *

Jack unpinned the last shirt from the clothesline, tossing it into the basket at his feet before picking up the hamper to make his way back into the lodging house from the platform of the fire escape. It was laundry day, and thankfully the fall weather had stayed warm, so the clothes had dried quickly. Once he finished folding them, he'd have an hour or so before dinnertime to work on his cartoon for _The World._

Setting the basket down at the back of the bunk room, Jack began sorting through the clothes, piling them into heaps on the nearest bunk bed. He had the lodging house to himself - most of the boys were either finishing up selling or outside goofing off - they knew to steer clear of the lodging house on Sunday afternoons, because hanging around the bunk room on laundry day was a sure-fire way to get corralled into helping whether you were on duty that week or not.

Once the clothes had been separated, Jack began folding them, using the table at the back of the bunk room as a workspace. He'd been drawing while he'd waited for the laundry to dry, and his sketchbook lay open with a stub of a pencil sitting on top. Jack absently pushed both items off to the side, not bothering to close the sketchbook since he knew he'd have to return to it later to begin drafting his cartoon.

It was only the second assignment he'd been given, but so far, his inspiration had held, and he already had an idea of how he was going to depict the plight of the highway department employees who were in danger of losing their jobs with payroll cuts looming and the commissioner facing the unenviable task of having to decide whom to let go of. Jack could probably have produced a year's worth of sketches regarding the plight of the working class if he'd had to - the strike provided no shortage of experience and inspiration.

His first assignment with _The World _had been a cartoon for the sporting news pages - a soft ball if there ever was one - but Jack suspected that Pulitzer's editor had been testing him, wanting to evaluate his abilities before entrusting him with more important and sensitive topics. He must have passed the test, because the subject of his next assignment had been decidedly more serious.

Thankfully, he'd been given the freedom to work on his sketches anywhere he pleased. As long as he showed up for his once-a-week meeting with the editor and had a completed cartoon in hand, no one cared if he worked in the office or out of it. He'd been given access to the small but first-rate selection of artist's supplies that were kept in one of the printing floor's utility closets and had been tempted to stuff his pockets with drawing implements, but in the end he'd chosen to take only a select few items. He was used to the feel of his own familiar (if lower-grade) supplies.

He'd seen Pulitzer briefly when he'd agreed to take the job, but since then had steered clear of the man, and the newspaper owner, it seemed, rarely ventured down from his office, so Jack had come and gone from the building several times on his first few days of work without seeing hair nor hide of Katherine's father.

It was a small favor; the idea of being drawn into closer proximity to Pulitzer - even if that proximity was still relatively distant - made Jack uneasy. It was true that he'd already been working for the newspaper owner in some sense even before taking the cartoonist job, but being a newsie who was free to come and go as he pleased (and could easily switch alliances to another publication if he chose) wasn't the same as being an employee on payroll, no matter how remote his position happened to be.

But taking the cartoonist job had made Katherine happy, so Jack had willingly (if reluctantly) done it, and he was stubbornly determined to make it work, though a part of him was secretly annoyed at himself for surrendering a bit of his freedom so quickly.

It was Katherine's effect on him - she had a way of persuading people in not so many words, and as much as Jack hated to admit it (and would have never have wanted the other newsies to know), her influence on him was nearly irresistible.

He wondered how she was doing with her own assignment at the moment, and if she'd managed to make it into The Refuge without arousing any suspicions.

Footsteps sounded on the stairs, drawing Jack out of his thoughts, and he looked up to see Davey appear in the doorway.

"Hey, what'cha doin' here?" Jack greeted the other boy. "Ain't you normally workin' your other job?" Davey (and Les, now that he'd returned to newsie life on a part-time basis thanks to his older brother's intervention) sold the morning edition on the weekend, but they usually went home after that, Les to work on his school assignments and Davey to attend to his other job at their family's tenement.

"Normally, yes," Davey answered, walking slowly down the rows of bunkbeds and peering under them one by one. "But Les said he left the slingshot Finch gave him here earlier today when he was talking with the rest of the boys, so I promised him I'd come back to look for it. I wasn't sure if he was really worried about the slingshot or if he was just trying to get out of his schoolwork, so I figured it would be better if I just went, since I'd have to accompany him back here anyway."

"The tenement ain't fallin' down without you bein' there to fix it?" Jack asked half-jokingly.

Davey shook his head. "The landlord keeps it in pretty good shape. I mostly do maintenance work. And he's out for the rest of the afternoon, so I'm all caught up on things for now." He spotted something under Henry and Romeo's bunk and reached for it, emerging with the slingshot.

"Well, that wasn't so hard," he said, grinning a little as he tucked it into his pocket. "I thought it would take me a while longer to find it."

"If you ain't needin' to rush back, how 'bout givin' a fella a hand?" Jack asked, gesturing to the basket of laundry . "Could use some help foldin'." It wasn't really that cumbersome of a task, but he hadn't talked to Davey in a while, and sometimes the only way to get the older Jacobs brother to slow down was to give him something to do.

"Sure, Jack." Davey joined him.

"Do you always take care of the laundry for the boys?" he asked as he picked up a pair of trousers and began folding them.

"Nah," Jack answered. "The fellas all take turns - the older ones and the younger ones pair up and each of 'em takes a week to do the laundry for the rest of the group. Makes it less crazy than everyone tryin' to get to the sink at the same time and all fightin' over the space."

"I'm sure it can get chaotic."

Jack shrugged. "Yeah, it does, but you get used to it." He elbowed Davey in the arm. "You oughta stay overnight with us sometime," he suggested. "Kloppman's put some extra bunk beds in now that we got the new boys with us, so there'd be enough room for you and the kid if he wanted to come along too. The best part of the day is after sellin' when we's all together in the evenin' anyway. The boys like to talk and share stories, and some of them'll even entertain the rest of us if they's in the mood. We got our own lodging house quartet, and Racer's pretty good with his harmonica."

"Really?" Davey sounded a little surprised. "I wouldn't have guessed that."

"I know, gotta see it to believe it, right?" Jack grinned. "But that's why you and Les haf'ta come. You's our brothers, but you ain't gettin' the full newsie experience if you's only hawkin' the headlines and not participatin' in the fun."

"It sounds...interesting," Davey answered, and Jack rolled his eyes at the cautiously polite answer.

"Ain't nothin' to sound so concerned about, Dave," he remarked. "Racer told me you survived your newsie initiation just fine - you know the fellas don't bite."

"Yeah, no - I mean, they don't," Davey agreed, clearly still unconvinced that the proposed course of action would be a good idea.

"Could always sleep on the roof with me an' Crutchie if you's worried about the cost," Jack prodded, trying to figure out what it was that the other boy was so hesitant about.

"Maybe," Davey answered noncommittally. "Though that doesn't sound very safe - especially for Les."

Jack shrugged. "Well...think about it at least," he suggested. "The fellas is all needin' somethin' to lift their spirits - they's been laggin' a little the last few weeks - so I wanna have a lodgin' house shindig to get 'em all smilin' again, and it won't be the same if you and Les ain't there. It'll be good for the new boys too - the two of 'em ain't had much chance to bond with the rest of us, and we oughta try to make 'em feel welcome." He scratched his head, musing a little as the idea congealed. "Should probably talk to Racer about it - he's good at plannin' these kinds of things - but I was thinkin' we'd maybe we'd spring for some kinda treat to share between the boys, like some soda pops or somethin'. We wouldn't haf'ta worry about the entertainment, cause that'll all be in-house."

He grinned at Davey. "You ain't a new boy anymore, Dave, so that means you's gonna have to help us out. You got any hidden talents?"

"Not really," Davey answered, folding the last pair of trousers. "I'm pretty useless as far as entertaining goes, especially in front of crowds. I doubt I'd be able to keep people's attention, let alone amuse them."

Jack snorted. "You's a big liar," he accused. "I already heard about your speech at the rally from a bunch of the fellas, and I even ran into Spot the other day and he brought it up on his own. Said you was a real good speaker. Made an impression on him."

Davey looked surprised. "Really?"

"Yeah, really." Jack plucked a shirt from the pile. "So don't try and tell me that there ain't a little bit of Davey Jacobs that's capable of captivatin' the masses when he has to. You don't haf'ta do a song and dance, just prepare somethin' to give the fellas a laugh or take their minds off things for a while."

"You're talking like I've already agreed to come," Davey objected. "I never said yes."

Jack gave him another good-natured shove in the arm. "But you was gonna say yes...weren'tcha?"

Davey sighed. "I don't understand how you manage to rope me into these things," he muttered. "First the strike, now this - "

"It's easy, Dave. Just like shootin' fish in a barrel." Jack grinned. "I ain't sure what's worse, your headline hawkin' or your protestin' - neither one of 'em seem to work so good."

Davey shot an unamused look in his direction. "I may not be the best of Manhattan's best, Jack," he said dryly, "but I sell papes just fine. And I can put my foot down when I have to."

"I know, I know," Jack chuckled. "I'm just givin' you a hard time. Comes with the territory."

As they continued folding the laundry, a warm breeze blew in through the open washroom window, turning the pages of Jack's open sketchbook. The movement caught Davey's eye, and he glanced curiously over at the drawings, his expression changing from surprised to amused in an instant as Jack grimaced, realizing what was on those pages.

Drawings of Katherine. Dozens and dozens of them.

"Wow," Davey remarked. "That's quite a variety of subject matter you've got there."

"Shaddup."

"No, really. I didn't realize that there were so many ways to - "

Jack chucked the shirt he'd been folding at Davey's face, momentarily derailing the teasing. "Enough, Dave," he groused, knowing that he was overreacting but irritated that the depth of his infatuation with Katherine had been exposed (even if he was sure that Davey and the other newsies suspected it already). "Just 'cause you ain't ever been smitten with a pretty girl don't give you the right to needle the next fella 'cause he is."

Davey grinned as he folded up the shirt that had been thrown at him. "But it's so easy, Jack...just like shooting fish in a barrel."

"Oh, you's askin' for it, Jacobs!"

"Okay, okay - stopping!" Davey held up his hands in surrender, but the grin never left his face. "I didn't realize it bothered you so much."

Jack snorted, turning back to the laundry. "Only bothers me 'cause you's the type that oughta know better. Race must be rubbin' off on you, or you's not as much of a nice guy as we thought." He shook a warning finger in the other newsie's direction. "Just wait 'till you's the one who's head over heels," he promised. "I ain't showin' you no mercy when the time comes - you's gonna wish you'd never opened that smart mouth of yours."

"Well, have fun waiting," Davey answered (a little pompously, Jack thought). "I don't plan on giving you that satisfaction any time soon."

Jack grunted.

"Anyway," Davey said, "I should probably get back home - it's almost time for dinner, and Les is going to be wondering what happened to his slingshot." He finished folding the last shirt and then surveyed the pile of socks that still remained to be matched. "You don't mind if I skip out now, do you?"

Jack shook his head. "Nah, I got it from here. Thanks for the help." He spat in his hand and shook with Davey. "I'll letch'a know when we's havin' our lodging house shindig," he added as the other boy turned to go. "Better start gettin' your act together now!"

"Hah," was Davey's sarcastic reply before he disappeared down the stairs. But Jack knew that he would be there.

Chuckling to himself, Jack finished pairing the socks. He was about to start placing the various articles of clothing on the beds of their respective owners when footsteps were heard once again on the stairs, and Specs appeared.

"Hey, Jacky," he said, his usually careful voice sounding more deliberate than normal. "You need some help with the laundry?"

"Nah," Jack grinned. "Davey was just here and he helped me with most of it." He began placing the clean sets of clothing on the beds. "You have a good day of sellin'?"

"Can't complain." Specs walked over and sat down on one of the beds. "Sold over on Park Row today - happened to be passin' by and saw that the boys who normally sell for _The Sun_ weren't hawkin' there today, so I staked out a spot and the papes moved pretty quickly."

Selling on the street that was home to _The World, The Tribune, _and several other newspaper offices was generally hit-and-miss; there was plenty of foot traffic, especially being so close to City Hall, but newsies from several publications congregated there, so the competition was fiercer than it would have been in less densely-traveled areas.

"I actually wanted to mention somethin' to you," Specs said softly, and Jack straightened up from where he'd been placing Romeo's set of clothes - along with the distinctive striped socks - on the younger newsie's bed.

"Sure, Specs," he said, giving the other boy his full attention. Specs wasn't the kind to run his mouth or beat around the bush; if he said he had something to say, that meant it was important.

"I happened to see Katherine while I was sellin'," the bespectacled newsie began, "and she was out walkin' with someone."

"Yeah?" Jack forced his voice to be nonchalant.

"Yeah," Specs nodded. "It was that fella from _The Trib,_ the one who helped us with the printin' in Pulitzer's basement."

The nonchalance slipped.

"I ain't sure there was actually anything goin' on," Specs said, sounding almost apologetic, "but they looked like they was havin' a pretty private conversation. Passed right by and was whisperin' to each other, so absorbed that they didn't even see me. I wasn't sure if I oughta tell you or not, but figured it couldn't hurt for you to know…"

"Yeah." Jack scratched his head. "I...ah...I appreciate it, Specs." He gave the other newsie a half-grin. "Pretty sure it ain't anythin' to worry about, but thanks all the same."

Specs nodded, his look sympathetic. Then he got to his feet and walked out of the bunk room, disappearing as quickly as he had come.

Jack silently finished distributing the clothes and returned the laundry hamper to its place in the washroom. He sat down at the table, reached for his sketchbook, and opened it to the next blank sheet, trying to ignore the sketch of Katherine peering out at him from the opposite page.

Specs wasn't the kind to gossip or to embellish his words. He also wasn't the kind to relay information unless he was sure that it was accurate and important. Jack didn't doubt that what the other newsie had described was exactly what had happened, and he'd depended on Specs' surveillance more than once in other situations involving the newsies, but this was something different - this involved Katherine - Katherine who had told Jack that she was going to investigate The Refuge, but apparently had decided to head to _The Tribune_ instead.

Trying to shake off his misgivings, Jack bent over his sketchbook and began to outline his cartoon, forcing himself to keep his eyes on the page. As shapes and shading and form began to emerge, he found himself getting lost in his art, and the irritation that Specs' disclosure had raised began to lessen, turning instead into a grim resolve.

Jack had always suspected that Darcy would be trouble, and he wouldn't put it past the pompous upper-cruster to try to weasel his way into Katherine's good graces, but he didn't think that there was anything to be worried about yet. The situation Specs described was probably an outlier; maybe Katherine had simply changed her plans and had decided to meet up with her old friend for lunch. There was probably a reasonable explanation for it.

Jack would be much more watchful going forward, though...and if the upstart Darcy ever crossed the line or got too comfortable, he would find out the hard way that Jack Kelly wasn't going to yield an inch of ground to him without a fight.

* * *

**A/N:** Thanks for reading! If you enjoyed this chapter (or even if you didn't), please leave a review and let me know what you thought!


	67. Charity

**Disclaimer: **This is a non-commercial work of fanfiction. Anything recognizable from _Newsies_ belongs to Disney and not to me.

* * *

**A/N: **So sorry for the delay - I hit a little bit of discouragement/writer's block with regards to this story (HUGE thank you to everyone who's been reviewing - your words have meant so much to me! :)) - but at last, here's the next installment. I hope you enjoy it!

* * *

Chapter 67: Charity

"Extra! Extra! Bloodthirsty canine rampages through schoolyard, dozens of children maimed!"

A newsboy approached Sadie, flashing her a grin. "Afternoon, Miss!" he greeted her cheerfully. "Would a pretty lady like you be interested in readin' the latest news?"

Sadie returned the smile politely, but shook her head. "Thank you, but not presently," she answered.

"Aw, are you sure?" he persisted, holding out a copy of _The World_ with a wink. "I'll give it to you at cost, since you already made my day better just by walkin' by."

"That's kind of you," Sadie replied, "but I certainly couldn't take your paper without properly paying for it."

"Well how 'bout a little kiss instead?" he responded without missing a beat. "I'd call that more than even, and if you don't like it, you can return it."

With some effort, Sadie maintained her composure. "That's an...interesting proposition," she said neutrally, "but I'm afraid I'll have to pass. Good day." And she walked off before he could say anything more.

Being on the receiving end of unsolicited attention from a headline-hawking newsboy was nothing new to Sadie, but their forwardness always surprised her a little. Judith was usually the kind to dismiss such advances with a frosty look or a pointed remark, while Margaret would occasionally tease and banter back. In years past, Sadie would have been more apt to respond like her best friend, but that was then.

She'd learned to be a lot more guarded now.

Glancing down the street, she saw Davey at the corner of Leonard and Church where he usually sold, his newsboy bag on the ground by his feet and a copy of the afternoon edition raised high in the air. Sadie made her way over to him. She _did_ need to purchase a newspaper for her father, after all, and she might as well buy it from someone who wouldn't flirt with her to make a sale. It wasn't often that she bought _The World _(since her father preferred _The Journal_)_, _but when she did, she generally tried to find the older Jacobs brother first before purchasing from another newsboy.

"Roosevelt to mediate dispute between railroad corporations at - " Davey caught sight of her as she drew near and smiled, lowering his paper.

"Are you even selling the same copy of _The World?" _Sadie asked, amused. "I'm pretty sure one of your fellow newsboys just tried to hawk me a headline about a murderous animal chewing up small children!"

Davey rolled his eyes, looking not at all surprised. "Would you like to see what that headline _actually_ says?" he asked, pointing to a spot on the paper as he held it out to her.

"'Policeman kills mad dog with rifle,'" Sadie read.

"Jack calls it 'improving the truth,'" Davey explained as she handed the paper back to him. "Exaggerating - or sometimes even fabricating - headlines to make a sale. It's pretty common practice for the newsboys, actually."

"But not for you?" Sadie asked curiously.

"I understand why they do it," Davey replied, "but it doesn't sit right with me." He shrugged, smiling a little. "Reason number ninety-two why I'm not cut out for this job."

"Well, you've got my purchase." Sadie held out a penny. "I'll take a copy, please."

Davey hesitated. "Sadie…you don't need to buy a newspaper just because you feel sorry for me."

Sadie gave him an affronted look. "That's not why I'm doing it," she replied, tilting her chin up just a fraction of an inch. "I want a newspaper. And you needn't be so stubborn about it, Davey. I've let _you_ help me before, haven't I? Why can't you let me do the same?"

"Yes, but…" Davey took the penny reluctantly, "...you've helped me out a lot more than I've helped you, Sadie." He handed her the paper. "I'm beginning to think that 'charity' is your middle name."

Sadie grimaced. "That _is_ my middle name, Davey," she muttered, tucking the paper under her arm.

He gave her an incredulous look. "Wait...really?"

"Really," she answered shortly. "But if you ever mention it again, I'll throw you off of the Brooklyn Bridge."

Davey managed to look both surprised and entertained by the threat. "That's a little uncharacteristically harsh of you, Chare."

Sadie's eyes narrowed. "_What_ did you just call me?"

"Chare," Davey repeated with an innocence that failed to negate the mischievous gleam in his eye. "Short for the word that must not be mentioned." Seeing her indignant frown, he dropped his teasing and said, a bit bemusedly, "I really don't understand why you hate it so much, Sadie. Charity is a nice name…it suits you."

"It's a _fussy_ name," Sadie objected, "and it sounds ridiculous on someone like me."

"But 'Chare' isn't fussy sounding," Davey countered, "so you don't mind if I call you that every once in a while...do you?" His beseeching look was irritatingly effective, and Sadie pointedly turned away. She didn't often catch Davey in a playful mood, but when she did, she found him oddly difficult to oppose.

"You know, I'd really rather not discuss it, and I have to get to the tailor's," she said stiffly. "But I'll see you tonight for tutoring perhaps?"

Davey nodded. "Of course. I wouldn't miss it." He turned back to his newsboy bag, then straightened up, holding another copy of _The World_ in his hands. "See you tonight, Chare," he added, giving her a tiny smile.

"Davey _Jacobs_!"

But he only tipped his cap to her, then went back to shouting headlines.

* * *

A few minutes after Sadie had taken her leave, Davey had just finished counting out change for a customer when he was eagerly approached by Romeo.

"How'd you do that?" the younger newsie demanded as Davey pulled another copy of _The World_ from his newsboy bag.

"Do what?" Davey asked, confused. "Break a nickel?"

"Not that!" Romeo exclaimed with an exasperated wave of his hand. "I'm talkin' about your other customer. How'd you get Dollface to buy a pape from you?"

"'_Dollface'?_" Davey echoed in bewilderment, trying to comprehend the other newsie's meaning. "You - you mean - " he gestured awkwardly over his shoulder. "You mean _Sadie_?"

"She one of your regulars?" Romeo asked, deflating a little at hearing Davey's use of the girl's familiar name.

"She's my _neighbor_," Davey clarified, finding himself disconcerted for reasons that he couldn't place.

Romeo sighed. "Figures," he said, dejectedly. "I threw her one of my best pick up lines, and she didn't even bat an eye. Could've saved myself the trouble, if I'd known she was yours."

"She's not - " Davey began, but before he could finish his sentence, Romeo had already turned and walked away, clearly disinterested in any further conversation once it had become clear that Davey didn't actually have any useful techniques to share on the subject of wooing attractive customers.

"...she's not mine," he finished quietly, unsure of why he felt the need to complete the thought when no one else was listening.

He watched as Romeo made his way down the street, shouting an exaggerated headline, then unfolded the newspaper in his hands with a sigh. It wasn't uncommon for the newsies to banter and brag to each other concerning the pretty girls they ran across on the job (Romeo especially was notorious for his shameless flirtation), and while Davey hadn't joined in on those conversations, he hadn't really thought much about them, either. But now he found himself feeling differently about the matter when it concerned a girl he actually knew, and wondering if maybe he'd been too thoughtless about the issue, not just as it pertained to her, but in general.

He knew that the newsies weren't intentionally discourteous, and that their cat-calls and appreciative remarks were typically delivered in the interest of flattering to make a sale, but he wondered now what it would feel like to be on the receiving end of that kind of approach. Most of the women he observed took the flirtation and teasing in stride, and some even bandied back. But was this an autonomous choice or a learned defense?

Davey shook his head, telling himself to get back to selling but finding himself still troubled by his rumination and by the thought of someone accosting Sadie merely because she was pretty, even if it was innocently motivated and only to sell a paper. But then again, maybe it wasn't really his business anyway, he thought. She was clearly more than adept at sidestepping unwanted advances, so his concern on her behalf was probably unwarranted. He might not agree with the other newsies' tactics, just as he didn't agree with "improving the truth," but he'd have to let that go.

Pulling another newspaper out of his bag, Davey pushed aside his uneasiness and was about to resume shouting the headlines when he caught sight of a well-dressed elderly lady walking in his direction. Her perfectly-coiffed hair was almost pure white, but she carried herself with an approachable ease that made her seem much younger than she probably was.

Where had he seen her before…?

That's right - she was the lady who had bought a paper from him the day his shoes had been giving him trouble, the lady who had paid for her paper with a dime and had told him to keep the change.

"How does the headline read today?" she asked pleasantly as she came within earshot. "I've heard all sorts of outlandish stories - entire buildings collapsing and children being maimed by rabid dogs - but you're the one who always gives the unembellished version, so I'd be interested in hearing your interpretation."

Davey smiled. "Honestly, it's not very riveting today," he admitted. "The Governor is going to be mediating a dispute between two opposing railroad corporations." He held out the paper to her. "You can have a look, if you'd like." It was completely counterintuitive from a peddler's standpoint - a good newsie wouldn't have let a potential customer peruse the goods for free - but his selling technique had never been conventional anyway, and if this woman valued sincerity, she'd probably appreciate the gesture.

His instincts proved to be right; she scanned the paper for only a few seconds before tucking it under her arm and reaching into her bag to pull out a dime.

"Keep the change," she said kindly, before Davey could reach into his bag for the pennies.

"Thank you, Ma'am!" he answered, inwardly elated. "I appreciate it."

"And I appreciate knowing what I'm actually purchasing before I pay for it," she replied. "You must have a more difficult time selling your papers, but just know that there are a few of us out there who prefer the actual headline to the exaggerated ones - even if the headline's a snoozer like today's."

"Hopefully tomorrow's will be better," Davey ventured.

"I suppose we'll both find out." The lady gave him a friendly nod. "Good afternoon."

Thanking her again, Davey smiled to himself as he tucked the dime away with the rest of his pennies. Receiving the extra money was serendipitous; his mother had come home exhausted the evening before from a long day at the factory where she'd covered an absent coworker's shift in addition to her own and she'd gotten off too late to go to the market, so in the morning she'd given Les the last of the leftovers to take to school and had instructed Davey to purchase his own lunch that day. Reluctant to spend the money, he'd been debating over whether to actually purchase something substantial or to see if he could get by with just a snack, but now that he had a whole nine cents extra, he could buy himself a sandwich at Jacobi's without worrying about it.

Deciding that he might as well take a break now (he was actually rather hungry if he was being honest with himself, and it was already mid-afternoon), Davey headed towards the deli. He sold a few papers along the way and was in good spirits as he pushed open the door to the eatery.

To his surprise, he wasn't the only one taking a late lunch that day - Jojo and Elmer were having a spirited conversation at one of the tables in the corner where the newsies usually congregated, and on the other side of the room was Tucker, the ex-scab, quietly eating his sandwich.

Davey walked over to the counter and placed his order, then chatted with Jojo and Elmer while he waited. He didn't plan on joining them for lunch - he'd brought Abby's book with him and needed to begin reading it so that he could return it to her - but he wanted to connect with the two other boys at least while he could.

Once his order was called, he said goodbye to Jojo and Elmer, then went to get his sandwich. He was about to go find a quiet corner of the deli to eat when he again caught sight of Tucker.

Davey hesitated.

He hadn't managed to make friends with the newest newsies at all - Artie seemed jovial enough, and he'd clearly taken a liking to Race, but he wasn't quite as open with Davey or the other newsies, and Tucker was rather taciturn as a whole. The only exchange Davey had personally had with him hadn't been particularly pleasant, and Tucker's aloofness hadn't wavered since then, so perhaps it was futile to try to make friends at this point (and Davey really _had_ been planning to read…).

...but the sight of the other boy eating alone was too affecting to ignore, and something was tugging at Davey to make at least one more gesture of goodwill. He didn't know why Tucker had chosen to remain so detached, and perhaps that separation was truly what he wanted...but Davey was all too familiar with the isolating feeling of being new and different and not knowing how to break into a pre-existing group that already had its own closeness and camaraderie that an outsider would be excluded from unless someone took the initiative to invite him in.

If Tucker brushed him off again, he'd let it be, but he had to at least try one more time. There was nothing to lose, after all.

Making his way over to the table where the other newsie was sitting, Davey smiled. "Mind if I join you?"

Tucker looked up in surprise. "Oh...uh, no," he answered. "Help yourself." He gestured to the empty table.

Davey took a seat diagonally across from him, close enough for conversation should Tucker want to talk, but not so close to force it if he didn't.

"How was selling today?" he asked as he unwrapped his sandwich.

Tucker shrugged. "Fine."

"Hopefully we'll get a better headline tomorrow," Davey remarked.

Tucker said nothing.

Deciding that it would probably be best to let the conversation go at that point, Davey began eating his sandwich. He didn't want to impose, and he'd at least managed to get Tucker to talk to him a little, so that was progress in the right direction. Maybe the other boy just wasn't one for chit-chat.

After several moments of silence, Davey decided to get out his book. "Do you mind if I read?" he asked Tucker politely. The other newsie shook his head, indicating that he didn't, so Davey pulled Abby's book from his newsboy bag, smiling a little as he thought of his younger friend who shared his love of reading.

It felt a little strange to be opening up a children's book with all of the serious and adult-like preoccupations that were currently on his mind, but stories had always been a type of reprieve for Davey, a way of setting aside his concerns and responsibilities just for a moment to lose himself in an adventure. And this one happened to be an adventure he hadn't read yet, despite the fact that it had been published five years ago.

Opening up _The Jungle Book,_ Davey turned to the first chapter, careful to keep the pages clean and away from his sandwich.

_It was seven o'clock on a very warm evening in the Seeonee hills when Father Wolf woke up from his day's rest, scratched himself, yawned, and spread out his paws one after the other to get rid of the sleepy feeling in their tips. Mother Wolf lay with her big gray nose dropped across her four tumbling, squealing cubs, and the moon shone into the mouth of the cave where they all lived…*_

"You read a lot?"

Davey looked up in surprise to see Tucker regarding him curiously. "Yeah," Davey answered. "At least, I used to. I don't have as much time for it now. But I try to fit it in whenever I have a chance."

Tucker nodded. "Kipling a favorite of yours?" he asked.

"I actually haven't read any of his books yet," Davey admitted. "This belongs to a friend; she's letting me borrow it." He was surprised that the other newsie was familiar with the English novelist.

"My ma loved his stories," Tucker said, answering Davey's unspoken question. "Used to read 'em to my younger brothers before bed. I'd sometimes listen in, too. Wish I still could."

The last statement was short and succinct, but the wistfulness in it was not lost on Davey.

"Do you miss home?" he asked, wondering how long Tucker had been out on his own as a newsie. The ex-scab had been living at the Manhattan lodging house ever since the strike, but he had to have come from _somewhere _before that, whether from his own home or from a lodging house in another part of the city.

"Don't miss home much," Tucker said with the same matter-of-fact brevity. "I do miss my ma, though. And I miss hearin' her read."

The disclosure tugged at Davey's heart. He couldn't tell from Tucker's statements if the boy's mother was simply not in contact with him anymore or if she had passed away, but in either case, her son was clearly missing her presence. Now that Davey thought about it, Tucker didn't really look that old - he was probably only eleven or twelve, though his bluntness and guarded nature had made him seem older at first - and it made sense that he would feel the loss of his mother acutely.

"Would you like me to read to you?" Davey heard himself offering. "I know it's not the same as your mom, but…" He trailed off hesitantly. It had been an impulsively-made proposition, and he didn't know how Tucker would respond to it, but something inside had compelled him to extend the offer, and he couldn't bring himself to regret it.

Tucker was silent for a moment. Then he cautiously answered, "Yeah...sure." Crumpling up his empty sandwich wrapper, he brushed the crumbs off of the table then leaned forward on his elbows, ready to listen.

"Oh...uh, okay, great!" Davey quickly located his spot in the book, still trying to get over the mild shock that his offer had been accepted. "I hadn't gotten through much of the first chapter anyway, so we'll just start off from the beginning." He began reading, feeling a little self-conscious at first but slowly settling into the cadences of the narrative as the chapter wore on.

They had almost made it through Shere Kahn's foiled attempt to procure the man-cub from the wolf pack when Davey heard a scuffling sound and looked up to see that Jojo and Elmer had made their way over from across the room and were now jockeying for the lone seat at the end of the table next to Tucker, each trying - and failing - to silently lay claim to the territory without disrupting the reading.

"Sorry, fellas," Elmer apologized, realizing that they'd been noticed. Jojo took advantage of his momentary distraction to shoulder in, claiming the seat next to Tucker. "We was just wantin' to join in on the fun. Is that all right?"

Davey moved over so that Elmer could sit down. "It's fine with me," he said, glancing over at Tucker.

The younger newsie shrugged. "The more the merrier, I guess." Jojo gave him a good-natured slap on the back, and though Tucker didn't respond to the gesture, a tiny almost-smile flickered across his face.

All three boys leaned in, waiting for the story to resume, and Davey found himself quickly caught up again in the adventure as he continued reading, each word transporting the little group from the deli in Lower Manhattan to the heart of the Indian jungle.

All too soon, they came to the end of the chapter, and Davey reluctantly told his audience that they had better get back to selling. The boys were noticeably disappointed, and he found himself quickly offering to read the next chapter to them the following day, provided that they didn't mind bringing their food with them since he knew he wouldn't be buying lunch again for a while. They all agreed to meet at half past noon in Newsie Square, and that being decided upon, they dispersed, Jojo bouncing up from the table and towards the door, Elmer not a step and a half behind him, and Tucker trailing at a slower pace until Jojo called over his shoulder at him to hurry up.

Davey watched the three of them leave the deli together, smiling to himself as he put _The Jungle Book_ back into his newsboy bag and cleaned up his sandwich wrappings before heading towards the door himself. He still didn't know what his role among the newsies was supposed to be, and the answer was no clearer now than it was yesterday...but he'd found a bit of purpose that afternoon in the most unlikely way, and he was grateful for it.

There was something to be said, after all, for not discounting the small things.

* * *

**A/N: ***The excerpt in the second part of this chapter was taken from the opening lines of Rudyard Kipling's _The Jungle Book_ on Project Gutenberg.

Questions? Comments? Opinions on whether Charity is a nice name or a stuffy one? (Davey and Sadie _may_ have a little bet going concerning whom the readers are going to side with, and they've already determined that the loser has to buy the winner ice cream, so these are high stakes we're talking about! ;)). All joking aside, please let me know what you thought of this chapter - any feedback is greatly appreciated.

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Guest Review Responses:

**AetherlightGirl**: Thank you, friend - the plot bunnies and I appreciate it! I'm so glad to hear that you're enjoying the different plot threads, and I promise that all of these little details have a purpose. ;) I'm glad that you liked Specs' cameo, too! I've been slowly working on a one-shot for him on and off over the past several months, so you've given me fresh inspiration to revisit it and see if I can move it forward a bit more. Thank you for your kind words! :)

**Guest (8/19):** Thank you so much! I try to do my homework when it comes to characterizations, and I'm very glad to hear you feel like I'm doing them justice. :)

**Murry:** I'm so glad you gave SWW a chance, and I'm thrilled to hear that you like Sadie! :) Thanks for the helpful feedback about the summary - I played around with it a bit, so hopefully now it's a more accurate reflection of what's inside (if you have any further thoughts on it, let me know. Sometimes things hit the writer differently than the reader).

It's always nice to run into someone else who appreciates Davey! As you can probably tell, he's my favorite newsie too, so most of my stories involve him. Glad you liked Darcy as well. He'll be showing up more in this story as we go along, and while I _have_ taken the slant that he likes Katherine (he was escorting her somewhere at the beginning of the musical in her opening scene, which isn't a lot to go off of, but it's something), I promise that I'm going to give him a fair shake (as I endeavor to do with all these characters). He's not going to suddenly become a bad guy or do anything that would contradict his characterization in the musical. :)

I'm so glad that you liked the other elements in the story too, like Davey's introspection, Oscar's thoughts (he's also going to be sticking around) and the brotherly relationships between the boys, as well as the detail given to portraying the class differences! I do put a lot of thought/time/research into SWW, so it means a lot when someone enjoys it and takes the time to comment.

Thank you! Your "rant" (which I'd like to contend should instead be referred to as "lovely review") made total sense, and honestly, the secret to how I can "churn out so much great content so fast" is 1) maybe being a little bit odd ;) and, more importantly 2) the faithful reviewers whose kind words have kept me going. I struggle with some anxiety associated with sharing my work, and it's hard to keep going/not get discouraged with long fic, but when readers let me know that they're still here and still enjoying the ride, it gives me the nudge I need to get over my jitters and polish up that next chapter for posting, so I must give them some well-deserved credit for their part in my writing output. ;)

Thank you so much for taking the time to share how much you've been enjoying SWW! ("Tl;dr:" are you kidding me? ;) This is the kind of thing that makes a fanfiction writer's day (at least, this fanfiction writer), so please don't ever hesitate to give feedback, and know that I will read every word of it. Long or short, it's all very much appreciated)! :)

**Guest (8/25):** Thank you so much! :)


	68. Invitation and Insight

**Disclaimer: **This is a non-commercial work of fanfiction. Anything recognizable from _Newsies_ belongs to Disney and not to me.

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**A/N**: Thanks so much to everyone who reviewed the last chapter - your words were greatly appreciated! :) For those of you who weighed in on the "Is Charity a nice or a stuffy name?" debate through review or via PM, I'm happy to report that Team Nice Name was the undisputed victor - and that Sadie has begrudgingly honored her end of the bargain by buying Davey his fairly-won victory ice cream (he says 'Thank you!' for the votes!) ;). We've got another lighthearted chapter coming up (shocking, I know), so pull up a chair, and we'll get this installment started!

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Chapter 68: Invitation and Insight

Esther Jacobs slid her timecard into the employee punch card system, waiting for the tell-tale sound of the paper being stamped before she slid it out and returned it to its slot on the wall. Her shift at the lace factory normally ended in the late-afternoon, which was convenient, as it allowed her time to run errands before heading home to start dinner.

Exiting the factory grounds by way of the employee gate, Esther made her way up the street, exchanging polite hellos with some of the women who were arriving to begin the late shift. She normally would have headed to the grocer's before going home, but she'd taken care of the shopping the day before, so she went straight back to the tenement, lingering for just a moment in the crisp October air before climbing the steps to the second floor, letting herself into her family's apartment.

Mayer was napping, David was still out selling papers, and Les had gone to a friend's apartment after school, so the Jacobs abode was quiet, and Esther allowed herself a moment to rest at the table before starting her dinner preparations. She was thankful for the work at the factory, but it strained her back and her hands, and she often found herself worn out before the day was done, though she tried not to let the fatigue show.

After resting for a few moments, she got up to light the stove and was about to begin preparing some parsnips for boiling when a light knock sounded on the door. Curiously, Esther went to answer it, wondering who would be calling at such an odd hour so unexpectedly.

To her surprise, it was the landlord's daughter, Sadie.

"Good afternoon, Mrs. Jacobs," the girl said politely. "I'm sorry to disturb you, but a letter arrived at Papa's office for your family, so I've brought it over, and I was also wondering if I might drop off something for Davey and Les?"

"Of course!" Esther received the two envelopes and motioned for her to come in. "The boys are both out right now, but if you're not in a hurry, please sit and stay a while."

"Oh, I wouldn't want to impose," Sadie protested. "I'm only dropping off an invitation; I don't need to speak to either of them."

"Well, I'd certainly like to speak with you if you have the time," Esther smiled. She'd only conversed with Sadie once, the last time the girl had been in the apartment shortly after the Jacobs family's move, but since then the two of them hadn't crossed paths. "You've been such a help to my boys as they've adjusted to life here in Manhattan. I'd like to thank you and get to know you a little better."

Sadie returned the smile. "No thanks are necessary, Mrs. Jacobs," she insisted, "but I'm certainly not going to turn down the prospect of conversing with you if you're offering." She stepped inside, and Esther invited her to take a seat at the dining room table, wishing not for the first time that their apartment had been big enough to accommodate a seating area for guests.

"Would you like something to drink, Sadie?" she asked, setting the kettle on the stove next to a large pot of water that would be used to boil the parsnips. "I have a few different types of tea, or I can prepare coffee too if you're like my husband and older son who prefer the stronger stuff."

"Tea would be lovely," Sadie answered. Esther nodded, setting out two teacups and reaching into the pantry to rummage through the shelves. She had a tin of wafer cookies that she occasionally dug into to reward Les, and thankfully there were still several of the sweets left. Setting these on a plate, she placed them on the table and took a seat across from Sadie.

"So, tell me about yourself," she invited. "I've heard from Les that you're fun and have a quick wit, and David has often mentioned your kindness, but I'm sure there is an array of specifics that they _haven't_ mentioned amidst those descriptors."

"I'm rather surprised at their assessment!" Sadie declared. "I would have half-expected Les to mention my daydreaming in class and Davey to remark upon my impulsive carelessness...but I suppose I'll have to thank them later for not tarnishing my reputation!" Her smile was humorous, but Esther could tell that she was pleased.

"I'm not sure there's really much to say about me that's at all riveting," the landlord's daughter continued, "but I'm the second youngest of four sisters, and my family has owned this tenement for nearly twelve years now, so I've more or less grown up on the property."

Sadie continued to share, giving Esther a brief sketch of her family and a general rundown of their history in Manhattan. It turned out that both Philip and Miriam had been born and raised there, so the Becker roots in the borough ran three generations deep, and Philip's father had also owned property, though the tenement he had managed had been smaller than the one his son was currently overseeing.

"Are you close to your sisters?" Esther asked, rising to fetch the teakettle from the stove and filling the teacups with water. She was one of three sisters herself, and though none of her family was within close geographical proximity anymore, their connection remained strong.

"I suppose you could say that we're close." Sadie paused for a moment, as though considering the question further. "Judith was my confidant before she moved to Boston, but now that she's gone, Abby and I have gotten closer by necessity, though our personalities couldn't be more different - we're like Davey and Les in that way. And Lilly is in her own category - we can't really converse much, but I know she _understands_, so she's generally the one who gets an earful whenever I need to air my thoughts to a sympathetic listener."

"We all need someone like Lilly in our lives," Esther nodded, handing Sadie a cup of tea. "My older sister was much the same for me. I missed her terribly when she got married and moved away."

"How did you get along without her?" Sadie asked wistfully, her hands curving gently around the teacup. Esther could hear the quiet ache behind the question.

"It was difficult for the first few months," she admitted. "I was the second-oldest, so many of Aida's roles and responsibilities fell to me once she left, and I never felt like I could truly fill her shoes. I didn't know how to be a support to our mother or to manage the kitchen or to guide our youngest sister Vera when she came to me for advice about boys or had a falling-out with her friends at school." She took a sip of her tea, then continued. "I tried to be Aida at first, but my personality was so different from hers that I ended up failing spectacularly at almost every turn. It wasn't until I stopped trying to replicate the way she did things that I started to see some small, modest successes. And over time those successes became more regular and more natural. I learned how to do the things my oldest sister had done without having to do it exactly the way she had."

She gave Sadie a sympathetic look. "There were times where I resented Aida for leaving, but as I got older, I realized that having to step into her role was beneficial for me in many ways. I learned how to manage a household, which helped me when I got married and had a family of my own, and I learned things about myself, too - that I couldn't be Aida, but I could still get things done in my own way." Reaching across the table, Esther gave Sadie's hand a gentle squeeze. "You'll find your way, too," she said reassuringly. "Give yourself time. It will come to you...I know it will."

The landlord's daughter didn't reply at first, but Esther could see that the words had touched her, for she smiled gratefully and clasped Esther's hand in return.

"Thank you, Mrs. Jacobs," she said softly.

Esther was about to reply that she was more than welcome, but before she could respond, there was the sound of someone arriving at the door, and it swung open to reveal David, who paused for a moment on the threshold, looking a little surprised at the unexpected company.

"Hello Mom, Sadie," he said, clearly trying to figure out why the landlord's daughter was present, but too polite to ask outright. He took off his cap and newsboy bag and hung them by the door. "Sorry if I'm interrupting anything."

"Sadie brought over a letter for us, and an invitation for you and Les," Esther explained. "We were just having some tea and getting better acquainted." Remembering the time, her eyes flickered from the clock to the stove where the pot of water sat.

David caught her look. "I can get dinner started," he offered, walking over to the stove. "Is this pot for the parsnips by the sink?"

Esther nodded. "I cleaned them earlier today, but they'll need to be cut up first. The pot's already heating up, so it will be ready for boiling soon if you don't mind preparing the vegetables."

"I think I can manage that." David began washing his hands.

"So you weren't joking - you _do_ know how to cook," Sadie said, sounding slightly amused.

"I said I knew how to cook a little, and only enough to get by," David amended, drying his hands on a towel and then pulling out a cutting board and knife to begin slicing the parsnips. "That's hardly a claim to proficiency."

"At least you're not burning brownies or over-boiling potatoes," Sadie sighed. She smiled at Esther. "I'm a notoriously inept in the kitchen, Mrs. Jacobs - it's rather embarrassing."

"She says that, but I've yet to see proof," David interjected. "I'm starting to get suspicious that she's making it up."

"I'm sure you can't be that bad at it," Esther agreed. "There's no escaping mishaps in the kitchen - they're inevitable. I'd imagine that even the best cooks have over-boiled potatoes from time to time."

"That's gracious of you to say," Sadie ducked her head in acknowledgement. "But I know it's mostly due to a lack of applying myself. I'm sure the results would be much better if I didn't let my mind wander so much."

"Or maybe if you weren't so set on doing things the _ridiculous_ rather than the _sensible_ way," David added, grinning at her over his shoulder. He sounded almost cheeky, and Esther hid her amazement, shocked that her polite, well-mannered son would have it in him to sass the landlord's daughter. But clearly there was some kind of understanding between them, for Sadie didn't seem offended by the jab.

"Are you actually _cooking_, Davey, or are you only dishing up smart remarks this evening?" she asked primly.

"Both, I suppose." He finished cutting up the last parsnip and turned around so that he was facing her. "It's not so hard to do two things at once when you're sensible."

Sadie gave him an unimpressed look. "Your pot of water's boiling over," she observed.

Panic quickly replaced David's audaciousness, and he lunged for the stove, pulling the lid off of the pot just as the water began to fizzle over the sides.

"Are you absolutely _sure_ that you've cooked before, Davey?" Sadie asked innocently. "Because despite your assertion that you can handle yourself in the kitchen, I've yet to see proof of it - I'm starting to get suspicious that you're making it up."

She was throwing his earlier words back at him, and Esther could see the quick wit that Les had described and wondered how David would respond.

"Is that a challenge, Sadie?" he asked, recovering unusually quickly from his slight embarrassment. "Because it sounds like a challenge to me." Esther could hear the appreciative note in his voice. For all of his natural reticence, David _did_ enjoy the occasional verbal spar if he was comfortable.

"A challenge?" Sadie echoed. "Hardly. I'm here to enjoy your mother's company, not to settle which one of us is the superior - or perhaps I should say _inferior_ \- cook."

"Point taken," David acquiesced. "Sorry; I'll let you two talk." He turned back to the pot on the stove, but not before Esther caught sight of the grin that was still on his face.

The exchange had taken only a moment, but it had provided a wealth of insight into David's friendship with the landlord's daughter. Previously, Esther had been afforded little opportunity to observe the two of them interacting, but now she could see that they had certainly come a long way from the awkward conversation they'd had the first time Sadie had visited the apartment. David's playful side only showed itself when he was completely at ease, so he was clearly quite comfortable with her, and everything in Sadie's demeanor seemed to indicate that the easy camaraderie was mutual.

It was the first time Esther had seen her older son so effortlessly relaxed since they'd moved to Manhattan, and while she would not have expected the source of that lightheartedness to be this unlikely friendship, she was grateful for it.

"Oh, I didn't realize that it was getting so late!" Sadie exclaimed suddenly, glancing at the clock and drawing Esther out of her thoughts. "I'm sorry, Mrs. Jacobs, but I really should be getting back to my family's apartment. We'll be having our own dinner soon, and I don't want to keep everyone waiting."

"Of course," Esther said graciously. "Thank you for staying a while; it was lovely getting to know you."

"Similarly so," Sadie smiled, draining the last drop of tea from her teacup and walking over to set it in the sink. "I'm glad we were able to talk, and I appreciate the advice."

"You're welcome to come over any time," Esther assured her. "I hope we'll see you again soon."

The girl thanked her, and they walked to the door. "I'll see you tonight for tutoring, Davey," Sadie called over her shoulder. "In the meantime, keep an eye on that pot of yours." She bid Esther a cheerful goodbye, and then took her leave.

* * *

The door clicked shut behind Sadie, and Davey turned back to his task, but he could feel the unspoken questions hanging in the air as his mother returned to the kitchen table to clear the rest of the dishes.

"Did you enjoy your time with Sadie?" he asked, deciding that he might as well broach the subject himself if they were going to talk about it eventually anyway.

"She seems like a lovely girl," his mother answered, setting her teacup in the sink. "She has that unusual combination of spunk and sweetness that you don't come across very often. I enjoyed our conversation."

"I'm sorry I interrupted you," Davey apologized. "It was probably rude to jump in like that - I'm not sure what I was thinking."

"She's your friend, David. It makes sense that you'd want to talk to her."

"But I see her all the time. You don't get the chance to speak with her very often."

"I'm sure there will be other opportunities," his mother reassured him. "And I'm fairly certain that neither of us minded your spontaneous contributions to our conversation."

Davey found himself smiling a little. He'd realized that his banter with Sadie might have come across as slightly impudent from his mother's point of view, but he was relieved to know that she wasn't upset about it and didn't disapprove.

"Sadie brings out that side of people, I guess," he said, trying to explain himself, even though his mother hadn't actually _asked_ any questions yet regarding what they both knew had been slightly unusual behavior on his part. "I can't really put my finger on what it is. It's just that she…" he trailed off, suddenly at a bit at a loss.

"She makes you happy, doesn't she?" his mother finished.

Davey found himself completely caught off guard by the question; that wasn't how he would have explained things, but as he silently debated how to answer, he found himself surprised to realize that his mother's assessment might actually be true. Sadie _did_ make him happy, and though he would have liked to contend that there was more to it than that (and there probably was), perhaps this simple answer was actually closer to the truth than he would have thought.

"Yeah," he admitted finally, a little embarrassed for reasons that he couldn't place. "She does."

He could tell that his mother was surprised that he hadn't denied it, but she didn't press him further and only smiled, patting him gently on the arm.

"I'm glad." She walked over to the table and picked up an envelope, carefully breaking its seal. "I'll let you open up the invitation from Sadie, but I'm going to see what's in this letter."

Davey took the opportunity to check on the parsnips as his mother silently scanned the epistle.

"Well, this is a surprise!" she exclaimed a moment later, folding up the letter and setting it back down on the table. "We're going to have company."

"Company?" Davey gave her a curious look. Who would be bothering to call on them?

"Our friends, the Liebermans," his mother elaborated. "Gabe has some business in Manhattan, apparently, and their family has decided to make a trip of it, so they will be staying at one of the hotels nearby for a week or so. They want to take the opportunity to reconnect with us since they'll be in our part of town."

"That'll be nice," Davey remarked, stirring the pot. "It's been awhile since I've seen Ruben or Rachel." The Lieberman siblings had been classmates of his - Ruben in the year above and Rachel in the year below - during the time that the Jacobs family had lived in Brooklyn. Davey had been sad to say goodbye to them when his family had moved, but since then they'd seen each other on occasion, as Mr. Lieberman's business trips often took him to different parts of New York, and whenever they were in town near the Jacobses, they'd always made it a point to connect.

"When will they be coming?" Davey asked, wondering if he was realistically going to have much free time to spend socializing.

"In two weeks," his mother answered. "They have other social engagements planned, but they're hoping to see us soon after they arrive." She walked to the stove and checked on the parsnips.

"Those are coming along nicely," she said. "Thank you for getting them started, David." She held out her hand for the spoon. "I can take care of dinner from here; why don't you go open Sadie's invitation?"

Davey followed the suggestion, relinquishing command of the kitchen to his mother and sitting down at the table to examine the small white envelope. It was addressed to both him and Les, and as he opened it, he saw that it was an invitation to a joint birthday party that the Becker family would be hosting for Sadie and Abby, set to take place, incidentally, on the day of the Liebermans' arrival.

"We might have a scheduling problem," Davey remarked. "This invitation is to a birthday party, but it's on the same day that the Liebermans are coming."

"We'll have to discuss that as a family, then," his mother mused. "It's a birthday party for Sadie?"

"Sadie and Abby. Apparently they both have October birthdays." Davey scanned the invitation again. "It says here not to bring gifts, but…"

His mother shook her head. "Of course you and Les should bring gifts. It would be impolite not to, especially after everything the Beckers have done for us." Setting down the spoon, she walked over to her purse and was about to pull out some coins when Davey interjected.

"It's all right, Mom - I'll take care of it. I can sell some extra papers to earn the money."

"Are you sure?" she hesitated. "Your work day is already long enough without adding on to it."

Davey gave her a slightly-grim smile. "I know we don't have much to spare right now," he said, wanting to be frank. "It'll be all right - I'm sure I'll manage. Just don't be surprised if I'm home late a few nights."

An idea suddenly came to his mind, and he rose from the table, walking over to the corner of the room where he and Les had their bed and a small bookshelf. He'd have to think further on what to get Sadie, but he already knew what the perfect gift for Abby would be...

Kneeling down, Davey began scanning the rows of books. His collection consisted mostly of a handful of childhood favorites interspersed among some more recent acquisitions, but there was one title in particular that he was looking for…

After several minutes of fruitless searching, Davey sat back on his heels, perplexed.

"What's wrong, David?" his mother asked.

"Oh, nothing Mom," he said absently. "I just can't find my copy of _Huckleberry Finn,_ you know, the limited edition volume that I got for my birthday the year we left Queens. I'm sure it's around here somewhere. I think it would be a great gift for Abby - she's reading _Tom Sawyer_ right now." Reaching under the bed, he pulled out a box where he kept a few more novels, but the book in question was not there either.

_That's strange…_

Davey got up, trying to shake off the feeling that he was missing something. He hadn't lost the book, had he? He was fairly certain he remembered setting it on the bookshelf with the rest when he'd unpacked his belongings. And he couldn't recall picking it up since then...

Before he could ponder the matter further, the door opened and Les walked in.

"How was your time with Martin?" their mother asked.

"Swell! His pa had to hurry back, so he said to give you his apologies." Les kicked off his shoes, stood on his tiptoes to hang his bowler hat by the door, then walked over to sit down at the kitchen table where the unfinished plate of cookies sat, eagerly helping himself to a handful.

"Don't eat too many, Les" his mother cautioned. "It's almost dinnertime."

"I won't spoil my appetite," the younger boy promised around a mouthful of wafer. "I could eat a horse!"

Deciding to set the matter of the missing book aside for the time being, Davey walked over to join his brother, passing the invitation across the table. "Les, the Becker sisters have invited us to their birthday party. It's going to be at the park in a few weeks."

Les gave the card a cursory glance. "Sounds fun," he remarked. "Do you think there will be cake?"

"Probably." Davey reached over to rescue the invitation from the shower of crumbs that was accompanying Les' enthusiastic chewing. "I've already thought of a gift to give Abby, but I'm not sure what to get Sadie yet. Do you have any ideas?"

Les shrugged. "You're the one who's always hanging around her. Shouldn't that make you the expert?"

Davey gave him an irritated look but didn't answer. He should have known better than to ask Les for help; of _course_ the younger boy would ignore the importance of the question, and would write off any type of -

He sat up straighter. _Wait…wait, hold on - that's it!_

Davey grinned, reaching across the table to ruffle Les' hair. "Thanks, Les," he declared, getting to his feet. "You were a big help."

His younger brother gave him a suspicious look, but Davey ignored it and made his way back to their corner of the room, eager to resume his task of finding the missing copy of _Huckleberry Finn._ Once he located it, he'd have Abby's present already in hand, and then all that remained would be for him to sell some extra papers for the next few days so that he could save up to buy Sadie's gift.

He knew exactly what he was going to get her.

* * *

**A/N:** Playful!Davey decided to stick around for another chapter...and _Huckleberry Finn_ makes a triumphant return (in reference, if not in substantiality). It's been a while since that plot point was introduced, so I'm not sure if anyone remembers it, but if you do, major props (and if you don't, it's completely my fault, not yours ;)). Thanks for reading this chapter - I'd love to hear your reaction to it!

* * *

Guest Review Responses:

**Guest (9/3)**: Thank you so much for your sweet words! :) It's really encouraging to hear that you're looking forward to the upcoming installments of SWW and that you're enjoying Sadie's characterization (it always warms my heart whenever someone says nice things about her, since she's my OC/fictional child ;)). I'm glad that you liked Davey's impromptu reading group, too - they'll be showing up more in future chapters! - and what you said is very true, these boys probably don't get many opportunities to just be kids because they've had to grow up quickly, so it was a mutually beneficial arrangement - Davey got to be a surrogate big brother and find a bit of purpose, and the newsies got to be kids for a while. Thank you so much for your review! :)

**Guest 1 (9/4)**: Aww thank you! :) That means a lot to me! I'm sorry for the delay - when I get writer's block, it usually doesn't last that long - but thank you so much for your patience! :)

**Guest 2 (9/4)**: I'm glad you liked reading Davey and Sadie's back and forth! As you can see from this installment, there's definitely more where that came from ;). Thank you so much for your review; I'm so pleased to hear that you enjoyed the previous chapter!

**AetherlightGirl**: SO MUCH FLUFF indeed, and more coming your way soon. :) Those lighthearted moments don't come as naturally to me as the seriosity, but I'm really glad you enjoy them :) And I'm glad you like Sadie's middle name/nickname, as well as the newsie moments (very cool that you also like to read aloud). Thank you again for sticking with the story, and I hope you'll be pleased with the payoff when it comes - I'm going to try my best to make it worth everyone's while for hanging in there.

I promise, I _never_ get tired of hearing encouragement and positive feedback, and it was really touching for me to hear that my stories have been a comfort to you during this time. That meant a lot to me, so thank you so much for sharing.

I'm so sorry to hear that writing has been discouraging...I definitely can relate to a lot of the feelings you shared; I grew up with friends who were writers (some of them starting as early as junior high) and sometimes I'd try to write too, but I always struggled to know what to say or how to say it. I could never manage to get more than a scene or two written out, certainly couldn't find the vision for a full story or a well-rounded character, and always felt like my friends' work was so much better than mine. So after a few attempts, I put it aside and didn't really pick up creative prose writing again for several years (when I started posting here).

And even though I've grown a lot in terms of finding that vision and my narrative voice (which has come with practice over time), I'll be honest and say that I still struggle with doubts over my abilities and fears over sharing my work. Imposter syndrome, comparison, anxiety, and self-doubt are very real things, and I think that's a part of the creative process that maybe doesn't get acknowledged as much as it should be. Writing can be wonderfully cathartic and freeing, but it can also get frustrating and discouraging, and when you're sharing your work publicly, that brings an additional level of internal challenges to overcome. Interruptions and a busy schedule also make the process difficult. You've got a lot of things going on that make writing a challenge.

So, please be gentle with yourself and your creative process, Friend….you're doing the best you can right now, and that's commendable, whether you have the "writing output" to show for it or not. Life is a series of ever-changing seasons, and some seasons don't lend themselves easily to creative outflow, but I'm confident that if you hold on to the love you have for storytelling, your season will come. The discouragement of the creative process is real, and the frustrations and the challenges are real, too...but so is the enjoyment (and in some cases, the passion and the calling), and those things are not going to disappear in you overnight, so hang in there. ***virtual hug*** I'm rooting for you. :)


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